Page 22

M ontclair.

That’s where our home is.

A New Jersey suburb nestled at the foot of the Watchung Mountains, just thirty-five to forty-five minutes from Manhattan, depending on traffic.

I stumbled upon it by accident, during a trip to The Whiskey Bar, a hole-in-the-wall place where I met Sonny Delgado, the founder of Neat , a craft whiskey label.

Good guy.

And I really fucking like his whiskey.

So much so, I invested in his company.

After a few meetings in town, I realized I liked the feel of the place. It was charming, upscale but not obnoxiously so—a balance of old money and fresh ambition, with enough seclusion and space to be exactly what I was looking for.

That’s when I hired a realtor.

It took six months to find the right house.

Because I wasn’t just looking for a house.

I was looking for a home.

A home where I could see Aella living happily with me.

When I finally found it, I bought it at fifteen percent above market value.

What can I say?

I had to motivate the owners to sell.

It’s an enormous brick colonial, sitting on eight acres of land, fortified with the best security money can buy— motion sensors, cameras, state-of-the-art technology —but also old-school defenses like wrought-iron fencing and a fully staffed guardhouse at the front.

I spared no expense.

Because this isn’t just a house.

This is Aella’s home.

Our home .

And I need her safe. It’s a fucking biological imperative.

As we near the estate, I don’t look at the driveway, or the sprawling grounds, or the towering trees surrounding us on all sides.

I look at Aella.

For her reaction.

She comes from money, and I know her father is protective as hell.

So really, this isn’t anything she hasn’t seen before.

But still, I can’t fucking lie.

It does something to me when her mouth drops open, when she leans forward in her seat, eyes wide, taking in the full view of her new home.

It’s killing me not to ask her if she likes it.

But I bite my tongue and wait.

I let the moment settle between us, let her absorb it, take it in.

The guard at the front gate recognizes me instantly, and with the press of a button, it opens smoothly, allowing us through.

I drive slowly, taking the longer loop around the circular cobblestone driveway, past the main entrance, and pull into one of four attached garages.

“Wait for me,” I murmur before stepping out.

The air is crisp and cool. The scent of rain-soaked earth still lingering from earlier.

Santos is waiting inside the garage, standing at rigid attention, arms folded behind his back in that disciplined, military stance that never quite left him.

For a split second, my brain flickers back to the last time we stood like this. Only then, it wasn’t in the dim safety of my private garage.

It was in the smoldering ruins of a blown-out village in Eastern Europe, smoke thick in our lungs, the weight of our fallen brothers pressing heavier than the debris we’d crawled through.

We had pulled each other out of hell that day.

And now here we were. Whole. Alive. But never the same.

Santos doesn’t speak. He never does until I acknowledge him first. That’s just how he is— silent, deadly, always watching.

I motion for him to wait, a simple flick of my fingers, and he nods. No words needed. He knows the drill.

Some instincts never fade.

Some men take orders.

Some men give them.

And some men don’t need words at all.

Santos has demons. Every man who’s walked through war and come out the other side does. You don’t survive blood and fire without carrying some of it with you.

But I trust him.

Not just because he’s good at what he does. Not just because he’s a ghost in the field, lethal and unshakable.

I trust him because he pulled me out of the dirt when I should’ve died.

We served together overseas, running ops so deep in the dark they might as well have never existed.

MARSOC trained us to be the best. To move like shadows. To execute with precision.

But war doesn’t care how skilled you are. Sometimes, it just decides it’s your time.

It should’ve been mine that night.

It wasn’t. Because of him.

That’s why he’s here now. Not because I need another body in my security team. Not because I can’t find someone else just as skilled.

He’s here because when a man saves your life, when he pulls you from the black and takes your weight on his own back, you don’t forget it.

And you don’t leave him behind.

It’s a dangerous thing, letting my mind drift back to those days. The past has sharp edges, memories that cut deep if I let them. But the second I inhale, catching the lingering scent of Aella on my skin, on my clothes, something in me settles.

She’s my anchor. My safe harbor in a world that’s always been edged in violence.

I pull open her door and help her down, my hands spanning her waist like I can shield her from the world just by touching her.

She’s so damn tiny.

Short. Petite. Deliciously curvy.

Soft in ways that strip me of my self-control, that make me weak when I should be nothing but steel.

And fuck me, I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that she thinks she’s anything less than perfect.

That she believes for even a second that she’s too much of something, not enough of something else. That some fucked-up standard, dictated by people who wouldn’t know real beauty if it bled in their hands, has made her question herself.

I blame society for it. The Hollywood machine. Glossy magazine covers, the airbrushed lies, the bullshit expectations that get shoved down every woman’s throat.

The good news?

There are people fighting back. Real voices, real bodies, real beauty breaking through the noise.

The bad news?

It’s not enough. It’ll never be enough to erase what’s already embedded in her mind.

But I’ll be damned if I ever let her believe she’s anything less than the most stunning woman I’ve ever seen.

Because every inch of her—e very dimple, dip, and curve, every bit of her impossible softness, everything that makes her Aella —is mine, and I adore it. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure she sees herself the way I see her.

“Boss, welcome back,” Santos greets me.

“Thank you. Santos, allow me to introduce my wife. This is Mrs. Ramirez,” I say, my hand firm on Aella’s lower back.

I won’t give him or anyone permission to use her first name. Fuck that.

She leans into me, giving a small wave.

Damn.

So cute.

“Um, hi.”

Santos dips his chin, ever the professional.

“Mrs. Ramirez, a pleasure meeting you.”

He doesn’t stare too long, doesn’t let his gaze linger, and I appreciate that more than I should.

Because apparently, I’m a possessive asshole who doesn’t like other men looking at my woman.

“Should I go in and wait for you?” Aella asks.

I shake my head.

“Stay with me.”

Because I want her by my side, always.

Santos runs down the security updates, listing the new additions to the system, the extra guards rotating shifts per my orders.

It takes four minutes.

But by the time I dismiss him, my palms are itchy, my blood pumping, because I need to get my Pixie inside.

Now.

I usher her to the main entrance, opening the door, leading her through a brief tour of the first floor.

“Want me to show you around?” I ask.

She nods quietly, and just takes everything in—the soaring ceilings, the intricate crown molding, the custom-built bookshelves.

But it’s the kitchen that gets her.

She stops, her fingers trailing over the sleek marble countertops, the state-of-the-art appliances, the enormous island, and the massive double farmhouse sink.

“Wow.”

Her voice is breathless, awed.

“This kitchen is beautiful.”

My soul fucking sings.

Because she likes it.

I know she bakes.

I like to cook, too.

So when I designed this space, I made sure it had everything we’d ever need.

“Does this wall open?” Aella asks, stepping toward the massive set of windows facing the backyard.

I smirk.

“Yeah. It’s too cold to eat outside right now, but check it out.”

I press a button, and the entire glass wall recedes into the structure.

Aella gasps, her hands flying to her mouth as the patio comes into view.

“Holy shit!”

She steps outside. I watch as Aella steps onto the patio, her fingers trailing over the stone table, the soft breeze catching in her hair, making her look almost unreal, like something out of a dream.

The outdoor space is perfectly designed. A working sink and prep station, a grill and smoker, all beneath a covered cobblestone patio leading to a heated in-ground pool and hot tub.

But there’s another hot tub inside, tucked into a sunroom with a working fireplace and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the woods.

I like to swim.

I like to soak.

And I know she does too.

I built this home with her in mind, long before I ever had the right to claim her.

I built it for us .

And now?

I finally get to share it with her.

I feel it in my bones—the tight coil of pride, the relief, the deep, overwhelming need to see her happy here.

I didn’t just want a house that suited my needs.

I wanted a home she could fall in love with.

A home where she’d never feel like a guest.

I want her to see herself in it, to put her mark on it.

I want her to claim this place.

To claim me.

Aella’s eyes are wide as she takes it all in, her jaw slack with something like wonder.

Goddamn.

It wrecks me.

I don’t realize how much I needed her to like it until now.

Until I see the spark of excitement in her gaze, the way she inhales softly, like she’s already imagining herself here, already fitting herself into the space.

I bite the inside of my cheek, keeping myself in check, keeping the words I want to say locked behind my teeth.

But inside? Inside, I am fucking dying.

I can’t wait for her to fill this place with her presence. To leave her sweaters draped over the couch, her books stacked on the nightstand, her watermelon sugar scent woven into every goddamn room.

I want to hear her laughter in the kitchen, see her bare feet on the marble floors, wake up to the sound of her singing in the shower.

I want to find traces of her everywhere.

In the way she rearranges the furniture, the way she throws a blanket over the armrest because she likes to snuggle up on the couch, the way she leaves little messes in the bathroom because she’s rushing to get ready for work.

I want it all.

Because she belongs here. With me.

And I plan to keep her. Forever.

But until she puts her mark on this house, on me, on everything we share, I won’t be able to fucking breathe.

She turns back to me, her expression soft, hesitant, beautiful, and my chest feels too tight, too full, too fucking much.

“You like it, Pixie?” I ask, my voice gruff with restraint.

And I know it’s rash, desperate of me to ask, but I can’t keep it in any longer.

A slow smile spreads across her lips, her green eyes shimmering with something I can’t quite name yet—but I want to.

She nods.

“Yeah. I like it.”

I don’t know why those simple words hit me so hard, but they do.

Like a goddamn freight train to the chest.

I take a step closer, reaching out to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, my fingers lingering against her soft skin.

“Good.”

Then I kiss her and grab her waist, hoisting her up in my arms.

My hands cup her glorious ass, and I walk with her to the staircase, taking them fast because I need to get my wife inside our bedroom.

Need to be buried inside her sweet heat.

Right. Fucking. Now.