Page 21

W hisking my wife— my wife —of six hours and twenty-four minutes away on a private jet seemed like the only way to start this thing right.

Technically, the plane is on loan from her father, but I’m the only one who knows the flight plan along with the pilot.

This here is for us now. Just us.

She’s mine.

And I want her— all of her —far away from everything and everyone that could hurt her.

Especially the threats.

The noise.

The endless, suffocating press.

And the stalker.

The one we still haven’t caught.

Oh, I’m working on it. Harder than I’ve ever worked on anything.

I’ve crossed names off my list—one by one—like a merciless executioner.

That sleazy agent, Henry Bartleby , who got obsessed with my woman, sending her offers, sniffing around her life like he owns it?

Gone.

I made sure of that.

The trainer at her gym who stared a little too long, followed her a little too close?

Yeah, I caught him. And no, he doesn’t work there no more.

The delivery guy from the grocery store who sobbed and ran for the hills after I gave him one hard look?

Out of the picture too.

But none of those assholes fit the bill.

So yeah, the hunt continues.

I’m tracking every digital footprint.

Every suspicious IP address pinging our servers. Every frame of security footage. Even the ones that were deleted before anyone else knew they existed.

But this bastard is slick— too slick.

He’s no ordinary creep with a hard-on for celebrity skin.

No. This guy’s playing a different game.

And I’m going to find him.

Because no one threatens my wife without paying the price.

I want him caught. Want to be the one to tie the noose around his neck.

It has to be me.

My Lucy is too sweet, too pure for that kind of thing. But not me.

I am her vengeance.

And this asshole earned what he has coming to him.

Now, I know he either paid someone off or knew enough to scrub the apartment building’s security feeds himself.

That takes skill.

Access.

Money.

Which narrows the list down.

I’m already elbows-deep in shell companies and burner accounts. Cross-referencing time stamps with known associates of the main person of interest.

El fucking Tigre.

The reggaetón superstar with the wandering hands and diamond grills. The one who wrote a damn anthem about my woman like he had a right to her.

Fuego Lento, my ass.

More like calculated bait—lyrics meant to stake a claim in public. And the video?

Don't even get me started.

Him standing too close, his gaze lingering too long. Lucy’s skin practically glowing under those lights, while he looked at her like a wolf in heat.

I don’t know yet if it’s him or someone close to him.

A bodyguard, a crew member, even a deranged fan. But the vibe’s all wrong.

There’s too much coordination. Too much nerve.

Whoever it is— they’re circling her like vultures.

But they don’t realize she’s not prey anymore.

She’s got me now.

And I’ll be damned if I let anyone lay a finger on her.

I’ve already increased surveillance on her family’s estates, on Connor and Clementine’s house, and added two more firewalls to her phone and email.

She doesn't know it yet, but her online activity reroutes through my secure servers now.

Her socials. Her calendar. Even her cloud storage.

Not because I don't trust her.

Because I don't trust the world.

Lucy is sunlight bottled in a storm. Beautiful. Bright. Unprotected. And now that I know what it's like to hold her, to taste her, to sleep beside her ?

There's no going back.

She’s mine.

Mine to protect.

Mine to love.

And mine to burn the whole world down for if anyone dares to get too close.

Let them come.

I’m already waiting.

“So, where are we going?” she asks when the plane is in flight.

“You’ll see,” I tell her.

I know it’s a tease. But I want to surprise her.

Puerto Rico’s not just a random destination.

It’s sort of home.

It’s where my mother was born, and the only place on earth where I’ve ever felt close to her since she passed.

This is my ground.

And now it’s ours.

Lucy sits across from me on the plane, still wrapped in the impossibly beautiful wedding gown she wore to say I do.

Pure white, like I asked her to wear.

She refused to change.

Said she wanted to disembark still dressed as a bride.

But now I’m suffering.

The dress hugs every sinful curve of her body like it was made for my fucking hands.

And those heels? Cruel. Lethal.

They make her legs look a mile long, and I’m foaming at the mouth like some rabid bastard, counting the minutes until I can peel the whole thing off and make her mine again.

Neither of us speaks.

Not because we don’t want to—but because the tension between us is molten.

It’s rising with every passing mile.

Thick and hot and humming under my skin.

I’m so hard I could break steel.

And that’s not even touching the fact that danger’s still circling us like a buzzard.

But I push all those thoughts away for now, because both homes I’ve built are fucking fortresses.

This one I’m taking her to is a fucking dream in white stone and steel and tinted bulletproof glass from floor to ceiling, and it sits right on my strip of private beach outside Rincón.

My house.

My safe place.

Our sanctuary.

The plane lands at a private airstrip I’ve rented for years. We don’t even have to go through customs.

A car is waiting on the tarmac. Her heels click softly as she descends the jet stairs, her hand in mine.

“Wow,” Lucy breathes, her voice awed.

I turn just in time to see her eyes— those glittering sapphires I adore —roaming the landscape.

Wide. Bright. Curious.

She’s taking it all in.

The endless stretch of white sand, the waves crashing like music, the palms swaying in the warm Caribbean breeze.

Her eyes flicker to mine, and for the first time in hours, I exhale.

“Have you ever been?” I ask, needing to know.

She shakes her head, smile tugging at her lips. “No. This is a first.”

A first.

I want to give her more of those.

I need to.

The woman has everything money can buy, but somehow she still looks at my world like it’s magic.

She’s not jaded.

Not spoiled.

She sees me— not the hacker, not the fucked-up street rat in a suit —but the man trying to keep her safe.

My heart beats harder.

We drive through the coast town, past faded murals and small cafés, down a winding road canopied with flowering trees.

It’s late. Not many people are out.

And it’s not luxury the way she knows it.

But it’s soul. It’s pride and roots and salt and earth.

Then I hear it.

Her stomach.

A soft rumble.

“You hungry, Angel?”

She slaps a hand over it, laughing. “I guess I didn’t eat before. I was too nervous.”

I nearly moan at the sound of her laugh.

God, she’s sweet.

I don’t even think before I tell the driver to stop at a roadside food truck with faded yellow paint and music thumping from a speaker zip-tied to the window.

“You ever had alcapurrias ?” I ask, already out of the car.

“Nope.”

“ Mofongo ?”

“Nope. Sounds vaguely sinful.”

I grin. “You’ll like it.”

I order half the menu— roast pork, sweet plantains, arroz con gandules, bacalaítos, and pastelillos —talking fast in Spanish, watching the cook’s eyes widen when he spots Lucy, her head turned, facing me from the car window.

They always notice her.

But right now, she’s not some model or internet sensation.

She’s my wife.

My Diamond Girl.

“Papi, te pegaste con esa mujer tan bella.”

The man behind the food stand grins as he boxes up our order, throwing a wink my way while his eyes linger—respectfully—on Lucy.

I inhale deeply, savoring the mix of fried plantains, slow-roasted pork, and garlic that fills the air, and nod as I reach for the box.

He’s not wrong.

She’s radiant in the soft island light, her hair tousled by the breeze, her lips pink from the passionfruit soda we shared on the ride over. And even if I didn’t speak a word of Spanish, I’d know exactly what he meant.

I hold the box with one hand, slip my other around her waist, and say with no little amount of pride, “Es mi esposa. Y créeme, lo sé—me saqué la loto.”

She turns to look at me, those blue eyes wide and warm, and just like that, I know the food isn’t the only thing I’ll be devouring tonight.

Cause the way she looks at me— starving, and not just for food —makes something shift in my chest again.

Like maybe this isn’t just a safe house.

Maybe it’s home.

We pull up the private road to my estate— a stretch of pristine beachfront walled off by tall palms and a steel gate I installed myself.

The house is low and modern, white stone and wood, built to resist hurricanes and stalkers alike. Floor-to-ceiling windows face the water.

There's a private infinity pool, a back terrace lined with lanterns, and solar panels that hum quietly under the sun.

I radio the perimeter team. The system beeps back.

Clear. Locked down.

Inside, I’ll show her everything—where I spend my time when I need to get away, the photos of my mother, the hidden cabinet where I stash the best local rum. If she wants, I’ll even make her a drink.

But first?

First I’m going to feed her. Then I’m going to undress her.

And then I’m going to spend all goddamn night worshiping the woman I married.

Not because I had to.

Because I wanted to.

She’s mine now.

She is safe and so fucking precious.

And if danger wants her, it’s going to have to come through me.