Page 22

“ A re you sure you’re done eating?” he asks, his voice that deep, rumbly whisper that always seems to slip beneath my skin.

I nod, dabbing at my mouth with a paper napkin.

“Can’t eat another bite,” I say, aiming for casual but landing somewhere closer to breathless.

He nods, that quiet kind of nod only Balor seems to do, like everything inside him is measured, carefully meted out.

Then he stands to clean up, moving with that same slow, deliberate grace that drives me absolutely insane.

I stay where I am for a moment, letting my gaze linger on the lines of his back, the muscles shifting beneath his shirt, the strong hands that just minutes ago fed me fried plantains and now rinse plates with quiet competence.

It should be such a normal thing— cleaning up after dinner in a kitchen —but it isn’t.

Not with him.

Because everything Balor does is intentional.

Quiet. Protective. Controlled.

And something about that— about him —sets every nerve in my body on fire.

He glances over his shoulder and catches me staring.

Instead of teasing, he just shrugs.

“I don’t keep on a lot of staff when I’m here,” he explains.

“I don’t mind that at all.”

“No? I thought maybe you’re used to something fancier. But, uh, this place is my sanctuary.”

I get it. I really do.

The entire villa feels like peace and strength at once— raw beauty balanced with his precise kind of order .

The floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the moonlit beach.

The infinity pool glowing in the distance.

The gentle sway of palms in the breeze.

“I don’t need fancy,” I tell him.

The truth is I like it here. It’s perfect , but I wonder what else he thinks about me.

Because as far as I’m concerned, he’s pretty fucking perfect .

And I know it’s too late for me to salvage my heart.

I push to my feet and walk over to him, placing my fork in the dishwasher beside his.

My fingers brush his, and the contact feels like a lightning strike straight through my chest.

“I think it’s amazing,” I whisper, my voice low and honest. “And I’m not afraid of chores. I had plenty of them growing up.”

That earns me a glance. Sharp and curious.

Like he’s surprised by the reminder that I wasn’t always dripping in designer labels and chauffeured town cars.

“That right, Angel?” he murmurs, his mouth tilting into the faintest smirk. “You willing to work hard for what you want?”

His words drip with double meaning, and heat rushes to my cheeks— but I don’t shy away.

Instead, I nod and step closer, letting my fingers brush the center of his chest.

His shirt is soft, worn in the best way, and I flatten both palms against the hard wall of muscle beneath it.

“Yes, Balor,” I say, my voice husky now. “I’m very willing to work hard.”

His whole body goes still.

I feel it in the sudden hitch of his breath.

See it in the way his jaw flexes and his eyes shutter for just a second, like he’s trying not to unravel too fast.

Like I’m doing to him what he’s been doing to me since the moment I stepped into his orbit.

“I really like when you say my name, Angel,” he murmurs, his voice ragged and full of gravel.

“Yeah?” I tease, stepping in even closer, until there’s barely an inch between us. “What else do you like?”

His bi-colored eyes open then— sharp, hungry, and blazing with something that steals the breath from my lungs.

“You really want to know?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

I swallow. “Yes.”

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

“I like the way you tremble when I look at you like this. The way your breath hitches when I get close. I like knowing you’re trying to play it cool while you’re soaking through your panties,” he growls, and fuck, he is right. My panties are soaked.

“What else?” I whimper.

“I like your sass. Your smarts. The way you think I don’t notice how you watch me when you think I’m not looking.”

“I don’t?—”

“You do,” he cuts in gently, but firmly. “And I love it. Every second of it. Because it means I’m not the only one obsessed.”

“I like the way you taste when you come on my tongue, Wife. And I really like the way your pretty little cunt squeezes my cock, like it knows its master, when I fuck you good and hard.”

Holy. Shit.

His words are filthy.

But I don’t hate them. In fact, I think I like them very much. My body sure as hell does.

“But most of all, Angel,” he continues—because, nope, my man is not finished yet—but he pauses and licks his lips, looking at me in my wedding dress, and damn, I feel that look down to my marrow, “I like knowing I’m the only man who gets to fuck you from now on.”

I swallow hard, heart thundering against my ribs.

“You sure about that?” I whisper, not because I want to tease, but because I need to know he’s not just claiming me in the dark. That he means it in the light.

That he’ll always mean it.

His hands reach for me lightning fast, one cupping the back of my neck the other on my waist. His chest rumbles and he doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Oh, I’m fucking sure. You, my gorgeous wife, are mine. Every delectable inch. Mine. And you love knowing that, don’t you?”

His words hit me somewhere deep— where all my doubts and fears have been hiding.

And I can’t lie. Not to him. Not to myself.

I gasp. My breath catches in my throat. Because he’s not wrong.

I do love it.

I love him .

And that terrifies me more than anything else. Because now I have something to lose. And it’s everything.

I go still, heat blooming in every cell of my body.

He’s right about something else, too.

I am obsessed.

With him.

The way he touches me like I’m precious, even when he looks like he wants to ruin me.

With the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he says my name.

With the way he wears control like a second skin— and the way I want to peel it off of him, piece by piece.

“I hope like hell you mean it, Balor,” I whisper, the words sticking to the heat between us. “This isn’t some fantasy to me. You feel real.”

His expression softens, and something flickers behind his eyes— something fierce and dangerous and beautiful.

“You want real?” he rasps, fingers sliding down to hook at my hips. “Then you’ve got it, Angel. All of me. Starting now.”

And suddenly, it’s not just banter anymore.

It’s a promise.

God help me, I want him. Desperately.

Not just his body— which, yes, obviously .

He’s sex and strength and danger wrapped in muscle and ink.

But more than that, it’s the way he moves, the careful way he’s been with me since the start.

His surprising humor.

That husky laugh I’ve only heard a handful of times but already crave.

And don’t even get me started on the Spanish.

When he speaks it, it’s like sex pouring from his tongue.

Natural. Effortless. Seductive.

Like he owns the words.

Like he could own me.

Body, heart, mind, and soul.

And the worst part? I want him to.

Because it’s too late to go back.

I already belong to him.

Whether he wants me for keeps or not.