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“I’m not letting him ruin your life,” he snaps. “How many times do I have to say it? I. Am. Your. Protector. Whether you like it or not.”

He pulls me in for another kiss. My nipples push through my T-shirt, my core responding with a triggering of heat. He lifts me off my feet, and my legs wrap around him as if it’s automatic.

Laying me down on the couch, he grinds his crotch against me, his erection pushing against my sex and making me sizzle with the closeness.

“Stop,” I whisper, but he kisses me again, and I want it, and I hate I want it, and I love it. “Dom?—”

“You don’t want me to stop,” he groans, pushing his hand against my crotch, grinding up and down so that my clit grows hot and ultrasensitive.

“Maybe I don’t, but I’m telling you to!”

He stands, literally shaking, his lips red from our kisses.

“I’d say you don’t have any idea how irresistible you are, but that’d be a lie.”

“Oh, really?” I say, unable to hide the bitterness from my tone.

“You’re aware of your beauty, Keepsake. You know how difficult it is for me to hold myself back. You turned me into a savage the moment I laid eyes on you, and that hasn’t changed since. So, let me tell you something. I’m not going to allow you to turn yourself in for The Vultures. I’m going to protect you from them – and yourself.”

He looms over me.

“And there’s something else. You might want to believe you had control, that you weren’t a pawn in their game, but you had no choice but to do what they said. They brainwashed you from the time you were a kid. They had your mother as a bargaining chip. You committed those crimes, but you’renotto blame.”

“Are you to blame for what you did?” I stand, glaring up at him, knowing I’m pissed at myself but needing to aim it elsewhere. “Back in my apartment, you told Mason he was lucky he didn’t catch you in your twenties. Was that because you committed crimes for the mob?”

He turns away in disgust. “That’s who you think I am.”

His response softens me. “I’m asking you a question… and you’re not denying it.”

“I was talking about my time in the Teams,” he grunts. “Back then, I never hesitated. When it was time to pull the trigger, I pulled it. I didn’t work with the mob, even if… certain people wanted me to.”

He walks toward the door.

“Wait,” I say, reaching out for him.

He pauses, but he doesn’t face me.

“Don’t you want to watch me open your gift? At least, I assume that’s for me?”

“It is,” he says stiffly.

“Then stay. If you want to see my reaction.”

This is all part of my plan. I try to convince myself of that as I take the wrapped gift from the bag. The gift wrap has small jewelry pictures on it: necklaces, earrings, rings, bracelets. My breath catches… and then, when I peel away the wrapping and see what the gift is, a tear slides down my cheek.

It’s a signed set of The Thornbound Oath book series, all eight titles, first editions in immaculate condition.

“This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

He watches me with a confused, conflicted expression. “Then why do you sound angry?”

“Do I?”

Suddenly, he’s close to me again, his heat washing over me. “Yes, you do.”

“I don’t mean to be – thank you.”

If I accept this, am I condoning what he’s done? Am I telling him I’m done fighting to earn my freedom?