Page 7

GAbrIELE

THE HOUSE IS QUIET as I move through it, checking security systems out of habit. Everything remains secure, no alerts overnight. The danger still looms, but it hasn't found us. Not yet.

I pause outside my bedroom door, listening. Silence from within. Is she still asleep? Or awake, perhaps wondering where I went, why I left?

Before I can decide whether to check, my phone vibrates with an incoming call. Sammy, one of my most trusted men, currently managing security for Kleah's shop.

"Report," I answer, moving away from the bedroom door.

"Someone tried to access the back entrance last night," Sammy informs me. "Professional job, minimal damage to the lock. They retreated when they encountered the secondary systems."

"Description?"

"Male, medium build, dark clothing. The cameras only caught partial images."

"Valentina's people?"

"Most likely. The technique matches her usual contractors."

"Increase surveillance. If they return, do not engage. Monitor and report only."

"Understood."

"And the items I requested?"

"Collected as instructed. The box is secure in the secondary location."

"Good. I'll retrieve it personally."

I end the call, mind already mapping contingencies, adjusting timetables. Valentina is moving faster than I'd anticipated, already targeting Kleah's property. A warning, perhaps, or simple information gathering.

Either way, it accelerates our timeline.

"Good morning."

The soft voice behind me belongs to Kleah. I turn to find her standing in the hallway, wrapped in what appears to be my robe, her hair tousled from sleep, her eyes still soft with lingering dreams.

She's beautiful in a way that catches me off guard—unguarded, natural, with a quiet dignity even in this vulnerable state.

"Good morning," I reply, tucking my phone away. "Did you sleep well?"

A flush colors her cheeks, memories of last night evident in her expression. "Yes. Very well. But you were gone when I woke up."

There's no accusation in her voice, just quiet observation.

"I had work to do," I say simply. "I didn't want to disturb you."

She nods, accepting this. "Is everything okay? I heard you on the phone just now."

I consider how much to tell her, how much burden to place on shoulders already carrying so much. But we agreed on honesty, and I intend to keep that promise.

"Someone attempted to access your shop last night," I say. "They were deterred by the security systems."

Her eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't panic, doesn't crumble. Instead, she straightens, processing this information with remarkable composure.

"Valentina's people?"

"Most likely."

She absorbs this, her expression thoughtful rather than fearful. "What happens now?"

"Now we accelerate your training. And I retrieve some items I had my men collect from your shop."

"My tools?"

I nod, impressed by her intuition. "Yes. The specialized equipment you requested. And your personal items."

Relief softens her features. "Thank you. I've been missing my work."

The simple gratitude in her voice touches something in me, a place rarely reached by others. "You should be able to continue your craft, even here. Especially here."

"Even with people trying to kill me?" A touch of gallows humor colors her tone.

"Perhaps especially then." I step closer, drawn to her despite my better judgment. "Creation in the face of destruction. A powerful statement."

She looks up at me, something vulnerable and yet strong in her gaze. "About last night..."

Here it comes , I think. Regret. Reconsideration. A request to slow down or stop completely. I brace myself for it, ready to accept whatever boundaries she needs to establish.

"Thank you," she says instead, surprising me. "For making me feel safe. For showing me what it could be like—"

How the heck did I end up with the world's most appreciative wife? There's not a day she hasn't found a reason to thank me, and more than once, too.

"And..." Her tone turns shy. "I want you to know that I don't regret it. Any of it."

Heat courses through me at the words, and even though I know it's too early, and that I owe her to be patient and gentle—

I just can't help it. I'm pulling her close, and I allow myself to steal just one kiss from her soft lips.

Her cheeks have turned rosy when I lift my head. "Um...thank you?"

If she gets any sweeter than this, she'll have me eating from her hand in no time.

"I should shower," she says finally, though she doesn't move away. "And find something to wear besides your robe."

"It suits you." The words escape before I can censor them.

A smile touches her lips, pleased and slightly shy. "Does it?"

"Yes." I allow my gaze to travel over her—the soft curve of her shoulder where the robe has slipped slightly, the delicate line of her collarbone, the flush still warming her cheeks. "But there are clothes for you in your room. Whatever you need."

She nods, taking a step back, breaking the spell of the moment. "I'll see you at breakfast, then?"

"Yes. I'll make coffee."

Another smile, this one brighter. "You seem to be good at everything."

"Not everything," I admit, thinking of all the ways I've failed, all the mistakes I've made. "But coffee, yes."

She laughs softly, the sound warming something in my chest. Then she turns, heading toward the east wing, my robe trailing slightly behind her like a queen's robe.

I watch her go, desire and something more complex tightening my chest. This is dangerous territory—this softening, this connection. It complicates an already complex situation, adds variables that can't be easily controlled.

And yet I find myself unwilling to retreat from it, to reestablish the professional distance that would be safer for us both.

In the kitchen, I prepare coffee with the same focused attention I bring to all tasks, finding comfort in the familiar ritual. When Kleah comes back, she's dressed in slim jeans and a soft sweater, her damp hair pulled back from her face. She looks younger like this, more vulnerable, though the quiet strength I've come to recognize is still evident in her posture.

"That smells amazing," she says, moving toward the coffee.

I pour her a cup, noting how she takes it—a touch of cream, no sugar. A small detail to add to the growing catalog of things I know about her.

"I need to leave for a while. But I'll only be gone for a few hours."

Unease crosses her features. "Is that safe?"

"The house is secure. You'll have a panic button—" I stop when I see her shaking her head.

"I'm worried about you ."

Ah.

Right.

It's been a while since someone last worried about me. And the fact that it's Kleah who cares about my safety has my chest tightening anew.

"There's nothing to worry about," I say gruffly. "I'll be gone three hours, max. And when I get back, we'll set up your workspace."

"Are you trying to bribe me?"

"Only if it's working."

She walks me to the door. "Please be safe."

I'm stunned to see her fighting back tears, and before I can think better of it, I lean down and kiss her—a brief, gentle press of lips that nonetheless sends heat coursing through me.

"Trust me. I'll be back. I promise."

THE DRIVE TO THE SECONDARY location takes less time than expected, traffic light on the coastal roads. Sammy meets me in a nondescript warehouse, security tight but invisible to casual observation.

"Everything's here," he confirms, leading me to a storage room in the back. "The specialized tools were in a hidden compartment in her workspace, just as you suspected."

"Any further activity at the shop?"

"Nothing since last night. But they'll be back."

"I know." Valentina's people are persistent, if nothing else. "Continue surveillance. Inform me of any changes."

The box of Kleah's belongings is exactly as requested—her specialized tools for seal-making, personal items from her apartment, the wooden case of seals that seemed most important to her. I check each item personally, ensuring nothing is missing, nothing has been tampered with.

Sammy watches me with barely concealed curiosity. It's unusual for me to take such personal interest in these details, to oversee an operation this minor myself.

"She means something to you, huh?"

"She's under my protection, that's all." I sound defensive even to my ears.

She means something to you," he observes, his tone carefully neutral. "Beyond the arrangement."

"Whatever you say, boss."

I load the box myself back into the car, unwilling to delegate even this small task. Then, with final security instructions for Sammy, I begin the drive back to the safe house, to Kleah. I'm halfway back when my phone rings—the secure line, the one only my most trusted associates have access to.

"Bronzetti," I answer, immediately alert.

"We've got movement." It's Toole, another of my security team. "Two vehicles approaching the safe house perimeter. Still on the public road, but the pattern suggests reconnaissance."

My blood turns cold. "Description?"

"Black SUV, civilian plates. Dark sedan behind it, keeping distance. Professional."

"Time to intercept?"

"Seven minutes at your current speed."

"Inform the house security. Activate Protocol Seven."

"Already done. They're on high alert."

I increase speed, taking the coastal curves with precision born of years of practice. The box of Kleah's supplies shifts in the passenger seat, her tools rattling with each turn.

"Has she activated the panic button?" I ask, already knowing the answer. If she had, different protocols would be in effect.

"Negative. House systems show no internal alarms."

So she doesn't know. Doesn't realize danger is approaching, circling the sanctuary I promised would keep her safe.

"Keep me updated. I'm three minutes out."

I end the call, focus narrowing to the road ahead, to the calculations of time and distance and threat assessment. The cars Toole described are almost certainly Valentina's people—too soon for a direct attack, but perfect timing for surveillance, for testing our defenses.

The timing is suspicious. Too convenient to be coincidence, too soon after my departure. Which means they were watching the house, noted when I left, decided to take advantage of my absence.

Or it means there's a leak in my security team.

Neither option is comforting.

I reach the turnoff to the private road leading to the safe house, taking it at speed, gravel spraying beneath my tires. Through the trees ahead, I catch a glimpse of movement—the black SUV that Toole mentioned, moving slowly along the public road that winds past our private drive.

They haven't made any move to enter the property yet. Just watching, assessing, gathering intelligence.

I continue up the private drive, out of their line of sight. The house comes into view, secure and seemingly peaceful, no outward signs of heightened alert. But I know security protocols are active, that every approach is being monitored, that defensive systems are ready to deploy if necessary.

I park in the garage, moving quickly inside, the box of Kleah's supplies momentarily forgotten.

"Kleah?" I call, tension coiling in my chest until I hear her response.

"In the library."

I find her curled in the window seat, a book open on her lap, sunlight streaming across her face. She looks up as I enter, a smile beginning to form before she catches the expression on my face.

"What's wrong?" she asks, immediately alert.

"We have visitors," I say, moving to the window, carefully staying to the side where I can see without being seen. "Surveillance only, for now. Nothing to be alarmed about."

She joins me at the window, and I resist the urge to pull her away from potential sight lines. The windows are treated, impossible to see through from the outside, but instinct runs deep.

We stand there a moment longer, watching through the window as the black SUV completes its slow circuit of the public road before disappearing around a bend.

"They're gone?" she asks.

"For now. They'll be back."

She nods, accepting this reality without drama. "So we continue as planned? As if they weren't watching?"

"With additional precautions, yes." I step away from the window, already mentally adjusting security protocols, patrol schedules. "We don't let them dictate our movements or routines. That gives them too much power."

And to prove this, I ask Kleah to close her eyes while I head back to the car.

When she opens them, her eyes light up, and she looks at me like I'm more angel than devil.

Na?ve is still my wife's middle name, but I'm no longer going to complain about this.

"This is why you left?"

"Yes."

"You shouldn't have risked—"

"It wasn't a risk. And we do not give them power over our lives. Sì? "

She nods even as her lip trembles. "Thank you."

Sweet. My wife is too damn sweet. And it has me starting to wonder why God allowed her to be with someone like me.

I watch Kleah runs her fingers over the tools inside, checking each one as if greeting old friends. "I can't believe they're all here," she whispers. "Even my special blending tools."

"I had my men retrieve everything from your workroom. Including the items in the hidden compartment beneath the floorboard."

Her eyes widen. "H-How did you—" I simply look at her, and Kleah's expression turns rueful. "You're going to tell me it's part of your job to know these things, aren't you?"

"Just be used to the fact that there is nothing you can hide from me."

She makes a face, but I pretend not to see this and instead ask her where she wishes to set up sher workspace.

"Maybe...the sunroom, if that's alright?"

"You are my wife. What is mine is yours."

The sunroom proves to be the perfet choice. It's bright and airy, with ample workspace and a view of the ocean beyond. I clear a table for her, positioning it to take best advantage of the natural light while remaining out of direct sight lines from the windows.

My wife unpacks her tools with reverent care, arranging them with precision that speaks of long practice. Each item has its place, its purpose, its particular importance in her craft.

When I see she's about to work, I decide to leave, but she calls my name. "Would you stay?" Kleah asks shyly.

The request is unexpected, touching in its openness. She's inviting me into her world, offering a glimpse of something personal, something that matters to her.

"I'd like that," I say, meaning it.

I pull up a chair, positioning myself where I can watch her work while still maintaining sightlines to the approaches outside. Security never fully leaves my mind, even in moments like this.

I ask her to explain the process, and my wife looks at me in surprise. "You'd really like to know?"

"Yes." Because I'd like to know everything about her.

"First, you choose your wax," she explains, selecting a deep burgundy block from her supplies. "Different compositions for different purposes. This one has a higher beeswax content, which makes it more pliable but also more prone to cracking if cooled too quickly."

She places the wax in a small copper pot, setting it over a portable heater she's brought from her shop. "The heat has to be gentle, consistent. Too hot and the wax loses definition. Too cool and it won't take the impression properly."

I watch as she works, her movements confident and precise. There's something meditative about it, about the careful attention she brings to each step of the process.

"While that's melting, we prepare the base material." She selects a thick cream-colored card from her supplies. "The surface needs to be receptive but not absorbent. Like paper that's been treated with a slight sizing."

She marks the center point where the seal will go, then sets the card aside. Returning to the melting wax, she tests it with a small tool, assessing its consistency.

"Not quite ready," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. "A few more moments."

There's something deeply compelling about watching her work—the focused attention, the quiet confidence, the respect for the materials in her hands. It reminds me of my grandmother, of the way she approached cooking not as a chore but as a sacred act, a form of care.

"Can you see it?" Kleah breathes. "How you'll know when the wax is ready? When it moves like this, like honey rather than water..." My wife lifts the pot, pouring a precise amount of the burgundy wax onto the center of the card. The wax pools, a perfect circle of deep crimson that catches the light like liquid garnets.

"The timing here is crucial," she explains, setting down the pot and reaching for a seal. "Too soon and the wax is too soft, the impression blurs. Too late and it's too hard, the seal won't penetrate deeply enough."

She holds the seal poised above the cooling wax, watching with intense concentration. Then, with deliberate pressure, she presses it into the center of the pool.

"Firm, even pressure," she murmurs. "Hold it... hold it..."

After several seconds, she lifts the seal with a smooth, decisive movement. The impression left behind is crisp, detailed—a design I recognize as her maker's mark, the stylized "KM" surrounded by a simple knotwork border.

She looks at me with a beaming smile. "Done!"

"It's perfect." I mean this. The edges are clean, her impression deep and precise, and the color of the seal rich and consistent.

"Would you like to try?" Kleah asks eagerly.

I hesitate, unaccustomed to being a novice at anything. It's been years since I approached something with complete inexperience, with no certainty of success. But when I look at my wife again and see how her hazel eyes are shining—-

"I'd be honored."

Kleah guides me through the process step by step, her voice calm and encouraging. When the wax is ready, she stands beside me, watching as I pour it onto the prepared card.

"Perfect," she says as I set the pot down. "Now wait... wait... a little longer..."

I hold the seal as she instructed, poised above the cooling wax. Her hand covers mine, guiding the pressure as I press down.

"Firm," she murmurs. "Steady. Now hold..."

The contact of her hand on mine, the warmth of her beside me, the scent of her hair—all distract me momentarily from the task. But I maintain focus, keeping the pressure even as she instructed.

"Now lift," she says. "Smooth, decisive movement."

I do as she directs, lifting the seal with a single fluid motion. The impression left behind is surprisingly good for a first attempt—the design clear, the edges clean, though not with the perfect definition of Kleah's work.

"Well done," she says, genuine approval in her voice. "That's remarkably good for a first try."

Pride—a sensation I rarely experience these days—warms my chest. "I had an excellent teacher."

"Thank you." A blush steals over my wife's cheeks. "Would you like to try another?"

We work together for the next hour, Kleah teaching, me learning, both of us focused on the delicate craft before us. It's strangely peaceful, this shared activity, this creation of small beauties amid the larger dangers surrounding us.

I find myself watching her as much as the wax—the graceful movement of her hands, the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when concentrating, the soft curve of her lips when she's pleased with a result.

"What?" she asks, catching me watching her.

"Nothing," I say. "Just appreciating your expertise."

I watch her gather the seals carefully, setting them aside to fully cool and harden. I help her with the cleaning, and then Kleah is smiling at me again like I've just made all of her dreams come true.

"Thank you for—-"

I can't remember ever being turned on by someone's gratitude. But that's exactly what happens when I hear my wife say those words again. And the next thing I know, I already have her in my arms, and she's gasping as my tongue drives inside of her mouth.

The kiss deepens naturally. Her tongue mating with mine, shyly at first, then just as boldly, her need matching mine, and both of us are panting when I finally give her a chance to breathe.

"Gabriele... "

Her hazel eyes complete the rest of what she's asking, and my whole body turns rigid.

"Are you sure?" I grit out.

"No," she says shakily. "I'm not. B-But the one thing I'm sure of is how much I want you—-here."

My eyes widen.

"Now."

I can't believe I just heard what I heard. Or that she's asked what she's asked.

"P-Please..."

But the moment I hear her plead like she can't wait any longer—-

My control breaks.

And then there's no turning back.

I lift her easily, setting her on the edge of the work table, positioning myself between her thighs. Her legs wrap around my waist instinctively, drawing me closer, creating a delicious pressure where we both want it most.

"Tell me what you want," I murmur against her neck, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there. "Tell me what feels good."

"Everything," she gasps as my lips find a particularly responsive spot. "Everything you're doing."

I smile against her skin, pleased by her honesty, by the uninhibited way she responds to my touch. My hands move to the hem of her sweater, pausing there in silent question.

She nods, lifting her arms to help as I draw the garment over her head. Beneath, she wears a simple bra, nothing fancy or designed to seduce, and yet the sight of her partial nakedness sends heat surging through me.

"Beautiful," I growl, meaning it with every fiber of my being.

Color rises in her cheeks, but she doesn't look away, doesn't try to cover herself. Instead, she reaches for me, her hands surprisingly confident as they find the buttons of my shirt.

"Let me..."

I allow her to undress me, to explore at her own pace. Her fingers trace the contours of my chest, the definition of muscle, the occasional scar from a life lived dangerously.

"You're..." she begins, then stops, seemingly at a loss for words.

"What?" I prompt gently.

"Magnificent," she finishes, color deepening in her cheeks. "Like something carved from stone."

The admiration in her voice, the genuine appreciation in her eyes, affects me more deeply than the practiced seductions of far more experienced women ever have.

"May I?" I ask, hands moving to the clasp of her bra.

My wife nods, breath catching as I release the fastening, drawing the straps down her arms. The garment joins her sweater on the floor, leaving her bare from the waist

I take a moment simply to look at her, to appreciate the beauty she offers so trustingly. Her breasts are perfect—full and firm, with dusky rose nipples that tighten under my gaze.

"You're exquisite," I tell her, my voice rough with desire.

She doesn't look away, doesn't try to cover herself. Instead, she watches me with those remarkable hazel eyes, open and trusting and filled with a desire that matches my own.

I lean forward, pressing a kiss to the hollow of her throat, then lower, tracing a path down to the swell of her breast. When my mouth closes around her nipple, she gasps, her back arching, hands flying to my shoulders for support.

"Good?" I whisper against her skin.

"Yes," she chokes out, fingers tightening on my shoulders.

Encouraged by her response, I continue my exploration, using lips and tongue and the gentlest scrape of teeth to draw sounds of pleasure from her. Her responses are uninhibited, honest —every gasp, every moan a genuine reaction rather than a practiced performance.

My hands find the button of her jeans, pausing there in silent question. She nods eagerly, lifting her hips to help as I slide the denim down her legs. Her underwear follows, leaving her gloriously naked on the edge of the worktable.

I step back slightly, drinking in the sight of her—all soft curves and smooth skin, flushed with desire and gorgeously, unabashedly bare for me.

"G-Gabriele..."

Her voice turns my name into an entire language all on its own. She only has to say my name like that, and I already know what she wants.

"P-Please."

I comply, removing the rest of my clothing with efficient movements. Her eyes widen slightly as she takes in my fully naked form, her gaze lingering on my evident arousal.

"May I touch you?" she asks, the question so earnest, so endearingly direct, that it makes my chest tighten with something beyond desire.

"Yes," I manage, voice rough with restraint.

Her hands reach for me, tentative at first, then with growing confidence as she explores my body. The simple, honest wonder in her expression as she touches me is more arousing than the most practiced caress from a more experienced lover.

When Kleah's fingers finally wrap around my length, I have to stifle a groan, the sensation almost overwhelming after the prolonged anticipation.

"Like this?" Her tone is nervous, her touch hesitant.

"Perfect," I manage to grit out as I guide the movement of her hand. "Just like that."

She's a quick learner, her touch growing more confident, more purposeful, until I have to stop her—-

Her eyes fly up to me, and I say roughly, "It's too much."

And if I let her touch me a second more, it would be over far too soon.

I step closer again, positioning myself between her thighs, my hands trailing up her legs, thumb brushing against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. She shivers at the touch, legs parting further in unmistakable invitation.

"I want to make this good for you," I tell her, my fingers finding her center, testing her readiness. She's wet, gloriously so, her body primed and eager despite her inexperience.

"It already is," she gasps as my thumb finds the bundle of nerves at her core.

I work her with careful attention, watching her face for every sign of pleasure, every hint of what she needs. My fingers slip inside her, first one, then two, stretching her gently, preparing her for what's to come.

Her head falls back, eyes closing as sensation overwhelms her. "Please," she whispers, hips rocking against my hand. " Gabriele ..."

The trust in her eyes, the clear desire, the absolute certainty—it undoes me in ways I never expected. This woman, this artist with her wax-stained fingers and her brave heart, has found her way past defenses I thought impenetrable.

But I still have to ask her one last time.

"Are you sure?"

"G-Gabriele, p-please—-"

I position myself at her entrance, the head of my shaft pressing against her slick heat.

"Look at me," I rasp out.

My wife's hazel eyes lock with mine.

"If anything hurts, if anything doesn't feel right, promise me you'll tell me."

"Y-Yes."

Only then do I begin to press forward, entering her with exquisite slowness, giving her body time to adjust to the intrusion. She's tight, gloriously so, her inner muscles clenching around me in a way that makes restraint almost impossible.

A small gasp escapes her as I breach her virgin barrier, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I freeze immediately, watching her face for signs of discomfort.

"Don't stop," my wife urges, her voice breathless but certain. "Please, don't stop."

I continue my careful advance, inch by inch, until I'm fully seated within her, our bodies joined as completely as possible.

And then I wait.

Even if it's killing me not to move.

I wait until I finally feel it.

Her body starting to writhe with restlessness, and that's when I finally start moving, building her pleasure with thrusts that drive deeper and deeper past her moist folds.

"More," my wife gasps against my mouth. "Please, more."

I give her what she asks for, deepening my strokes, increasing the pace while still maintaining control. One hand supports her lower back, the other slides between us to where we're joined, thumb finding the bundle of nerves that will heighten her pleasure.

Kleah's response is immediate and gratifying—a sharp gasp, a tightening of her legs around my waist, a flush spreading across her chest and neck. She's close, I can feel it in the way her body tenses, in the quickening of her breath.

"That's it," I encourage, voice rough with my own mounting pleasure. "Come for me, cara—-"

Kleah's release is beautiful in its intensity—back arching, muscles clenching around me, my name spilling out in a whimper. The sight of her, undone by pleasure I've given her, is enough to push me to the edge of my own control.

I pull out just in time, my release spilling across her stomach in hot pulses that leave me shaking, vulnerable in a way I rarely allow myself to be.

For a moment, we simply breathe together, foreheads touching, her hands still clutching my shoulders as if she might float away without the anchor of my body. Then I reach for a clean cloth from her workspace, gently cleaning the evidence of my passion from her skin.

"Are you okay?" I ask quietly.

Kleah's smile is luminous, transforming her face into something so beautiful it makes my chest tighten anew.

"Not just okay," she whispers, "but perfect."

I help Kleah down from the table, supporting her as her legs tremble slightly beneath her. We dress in comfortable silence, exchanging small touches, private smiles, the air between us charged with something new and precious.

When she's fully clothed again, I pull her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "No regrets?" I ask, needing to be certain.

"None," she assures me, meeting my gaze directly. "It was... everything I hoped it would be. More, even."

The simple honesty in her voice, the clear contentment in her eyes, settles something in me I didn't know was restless.

I watch my wife turn back to her workplace, gathering the seals and checking them one at a time. It makes me want to do something - anything - so that I can seal her in my possession.

Because this time, it's no longer enough to protect her.

I also want to own her. Forever. No matter the means. No matter the cost.

KLEAH

I've never felt anything like this.

My body hums with lingering pleasure, with the sweet ache of new muscles used, with the strange and wonderful awareness of having been thoroughly, completely loved.

Because it was love, I think, even if neither of us has said the word. Not just sex, not just physical release, but something deeper, something that connected us beyond flesh and sensation.

Gabriele moves around the kitchen with his usual grace, preparing dinner while I sit at the counter, watching him with a contentment I've never known before. There's something different about him now—a softness beneath the controlled exterior, a tenderness in the way he looks at me.

"Are you sure you're okay?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder as he stirs something on the stove. "No discomfort?"

"I'm fine." He's asked me that five times in the past seven minutes. It's so adorable, really, but even I know better than to tell him that.

"Don't lie."

"Fine then," I concede with a sigh. "I'm a little sore—"

My husband's jaw clenches.

"But I swear you'll break my heart if you use that as an excuse not to touch me again."

A few seconds pass.

And just as the reality of what I've said hits me—-

Have you no shame, Kleah Martell?

My husband's dark eyes gleam, and oh, the heat I see it in simply makes me catch my breath.

"Just remember, cara. You asked for this."

Why do I suddenly have this feeling I've asked more than what I can chew?

We eat dinner on the terrace, watching the sun set over the ocean, and afterwards, we move to the library. We're starting to have a routine, my husband and I...

And I like it.

No, actually, I love it. So, so much. To the point that I'm starting to worry everything we have is just too good to be true.

Gabriele and I talk well into the night. We talk about anything. Everything. It's already half-past one when he catches me yawning. But as soon as we're back in the bedroom——

Oh no.

That's when my husband makes his move.

"Don't forget," he growls, and my heart jumps to my throat. In excitement. Not fear.

"You asked for this."