Page 26 of Desperate People (Mergers & Acquisitions #5)

I ’m back in our Verona home, padding barefoot across the cool marble floors while mentally replaying every minute of our whirlwind honeymoon.

My cheeks flush just thinking about Balor.

My sexy as fuck, ravenous for me, husband.

I’m literally crazy about this man. Every single inch of him.

His hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me like I’m not just his wife, but his entire world.

I’m used to getting attention from people, men in particular.

Too much of it, honestly.

Flattering, creepy, overwhelming attention.

Most of it is from strangers who see me as something shiny, not someone real.

But this?

This is different.

I’ve never been anyone’s singular focus.

Not like this.

Not like him.

Balor watches me like I’m gravity itself. Like I’m the only thing tethering him to the earth.

It’s not just desire in his eyes.

It’s obsession. Possession. Worship.

And it terrifies me.

Because I think I like it.

No, it’s worse than like .

God help me.

I crave it .

I crave him .

Fuck, I miss him already.

He had to go into the office for a few hours— some security breach he wouldn’t elaborate on —but I opted to stay home.

Not because I didn’t want to go with him, but because I needed a moment to breathe.

To unpack, literally and emotionally.

Also, some of my cousins are coming over for lunch.

I grin as I recall his reaction when I told him before he left.

Balor nodded, dragged me to him for a toe curling kiss, then he arranged everything.

Of course he did.

The man is infuriatingly perfect sometimes.

Without me even asking, he called a caterer and ordered every dish I fell in love with in Puerto Rico.

There’s a whole spread being delivered shortly— mofongo, arroz con gandules, empanadillas, and so much more .

All of it straight out of a secret gem of a restaurant nearby that Balor says makes every dish that stole my heart during our time in Puerto Rico with the utmost authenticity.

Including what my amazing husband swears on his soul will be the most decadent flan I’ve ever tasted.

“I wish I was gonna be here to see your face when you take that first bite,” he growled against my mouth as he kissed me goodbye this morning.

“I’ll save dessert for you. Husband,” I replied, teasing him with the title.

And the way he looked at me? God. That intense bi-colored look could start fires with no outside help.

It certainly lit something up inside me— hot and slow and dangerously close to spilling over.

I’d asked him why he went through all the trouble. Why he arranged the delivery, picked out every dish by name, and called ahead to make sure everything was perfect.

He’d shrugged, kissed my temple, and said simply, “I wanted to bring a piece of our honeymoon home. Didn’t mind sharing it—with the family.”

That’s what did me in.

Not the food.

Not the kiss.

Not even the memory of him stripping me down poolside in the moonlight.

It was that— the quiet thoughtfulness. The care.

My heart could burst from it.

And maybe, just maybe, it already has.

I look out the window and spot one of our security guards making the rounds, an enormous German shepherd at his side on a short, thick leash.

The dog’s ears are alert, posture rigid, trained to protect. The sight sends a chill down my spine.

Balor insisted on the extra measures.

He told me not to worry. That I’m safe now.

That he’s got me.

I just hope he knows that he does. Got me, I mean.

Lord, does he have me. Body, heart, and soul.

And sure, I’ve had security before. Perks of being a Volkov. I’ve lived my entire life under glass, with cameras, escorts, and bulletproof cars when the media frenzy gets out of control.

But this is different.

Because this isn’t about paparazzi.

This is about someone who chose to invade my space.

To hurt me. Someone watching me close enough to break in, destroy my bedroom, defecate on my bed, and leave a rose wrapped in lies and threats.

And somehow, that moment—the crash of fear, the spiral of panic—led me here.

To this mansion in Verona.

To Balor.

My husband.

I press my fingers to the cool glass and try to breathe past the weight pressing down on my chest.

I didn’t marry him because I was forced to. Not really.

I married him because he made me feel safe. Wanted. Seen.

And now?

Now I’m afraid of wanting too much.

Because I don’t want to be just a responsibility he’s taken on out of guilt or obsession or duty. I don’t want to be a footnote in the life of a man like Balor Cruz.

I want to be his forever.

And the terrifying truth is—I’m already in love with him.

In love with the way he moves.

The way he watches me like I’m the only thing in his universe.

The way he cooks for me, touches me, says my name like it’s a prayer.

But what if I’m fooling myself?

What if I’m living in a dream that’s destined to end?

God. Why does life have to be so complicated?

Why can’t love—real love—be simple?

I open a suitcase and pull out one of the sundresses I wore nearly every day while we honeymooned at his Puerto Rican villa.

Balor doesn’t brag about his wealth or success— even though I know for a fact he has both.

He doesn’t have to flex.

It’s in the way he moves, the quiet confidence, the subtle way he handles problems without breaking a sweat.

No designer labels or flashy cars needed. He is the power in the room.

Which is wild, considering I work for Volkov Industries too. Not that most people realize it. When I’m not juggling press, dodging stalkers, or pretending to smile for a camera, I actually prefer being buried in work.

The office is where I thrive.

Negotiating, smoothing over egos, encouraging positive relationships with the people who keep the wheels of Volkov Industries turning—that’s what I’m good at.

That’s where I shine.

Not posing for cameras or twirling in designer gowns at influencer luncheons, pretending I belong in that world.

But I do it anyway. Smile pretty. Stand still. Look the part.

Because sometimes, being a Volkov means knowing when to play the role— even if it doesn’t fit.

And maybe that’s what’s always drawn me to Balor.

He doesn’t want the role. He is the role.

Cyber king. Hacker extraordinaire. Genius coder.

That’s him.

Unapologetically powerful. Unshakably calm.

And when he looks at me? It’s like he sees through all the polish and performance— straight to the core of who I really am.

And for once, I don’t want to hide it.

I have some commitments I still need to fulfill, but after that, maybe I won’t have to do this anymore.

Because my last name carries weight.

And my face always garners attention— wanted or not.

Pretty is currency in my world, but that doesn’t mean I always like how it’s spent.

But, like it or not, I am kind of a celebrity.

Not because I asked for it.

Because I was born into it.

And maybe that’s why Balor feels so different.

Because for once, I’m not being admired for the idea of me.

He looks for the real me. And when he finds it? He doesn’t look away.

And that? That’s everything.

Holding the clothes I wore in Puerto Rico to my chest before dropping them in the hamper, I close my eyes, and I can still feel the sticky warmth of the island air.

The salt in my hair.

Balor’s hand on my thigh as we watched the sunset from his infinity pool.

The way he opens his arms for me, swallowing me in the power and surety of his embrace.

A dreamy sigh escapes my lips, and I wonder if maybe, just maybe I haven’t found my happily-ever-after, after all.