Page 31

I wake up alone.

The Egyptian cotton sheets are cool where Balor’s body should be, and for a moment, I feel the hollow ache of missing him before I even open my eyes.

But then I spot the folded note on his pillow, my name scrawled in his firm, unmistakable hand.

I’ll be home at six to take you to your parents’ house for dinner, Wife.

Be good.

– B

The word Wife sends a flutter through me, low and hot. I press the note to my chest for a second longer than necessary, trying not to read too much into how that one word makes me feel seen and claimed— and his.

I bite my lip and glance at the clock.

Five o’clock.

Damn. I must’ve been out cold.

Not surprising, really— not after the way we went at it in the dining room.

Just thinking about it has my skin flushing, my thighs clenching.

The hunger between us.

It isn’t normal. It’s consuming. Addictive.

But it’s what came after that undoes me.

The way he held me. The quiet reverence in his eyes.

Like I wasn’t just a woman he wanted, but a woman he cherished.

I slip on my robe and pad barefoot through the house. I’m expecting chaos.

Maybe a trail of clothes, a chair knocked over, definitely remnants of flowers or wine or something.

Instead, the place is spotless.

There’s no sign of what happened except for the faintest trace of citrus and cedar from the cleaning products.

Even the faint scent of sex is gone.

And I know, without a shred of doubt, that Balor did this.

No way would he have let someone else come in while I was asleep.

He wouldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t violate that small, sacred trust.

Tears sting the backs of my eyes.

This man.

God. I really do love him.

And maybe that should terrify me—but it doesn’t.

It just is .

Like breathing.

Like gravity.

I walk to the kitchen and make a quick coffee, needing something to ground me.

As I sip it in silence, I send a message to my mother, trying to figure out why we’re being summoned.

She confirms dinner but adds it won’t just be them.

Uncle Adrik and Aunt Sofia.

Uncle Andres and Aunt Ellie.

Uncle Josef and Aunt Meredith.

Plus a few of the cousins.

So basically the whole damn Volkov Clan.

Great.

This is either a celebration or an interrogation.

Probably both.

I finish my coffee and head upstairs, rifling through my closet.

I don’t want to overdress, but I’m not showing up looking like a slob either.

Not when they’ll all be analyzing everything from my shoes to my lipstick.

I settle on a pair of wide-legged palazzo pants that float when I walk and a sleeveless pale silk top that clings just right.

Classy but effortless.

I pull my hair up into a sleek high ponytail and keep my makeup light—just a little concealer, mascara, and a swipe of tinted gloss.

As I give myself a final once-over in the mirror, my gaze lingers on the blue diamond Balor put on my finger.

Elegant. Powerful. Understated.

Like him.

I run my thumb over it, heart racing in sync with the steady pulse beneath my skin.

Tonight is a family dinner. But it feels like more.

I love my family. They’ve always been a fortress— warm, affectionate, fiercely loyal.

We’ve shared thousands of dinners, celebrations, holidays.

Laughter spilling across polished tables, stories thick with history and inside jokes.

But tonight? Something feels different.

Maybe it’s because, until now, I’ve never really been one of them.

Not fully.

Not as part of a devoted couple— the kind that’s stitched into the fabric of the family tree, rooted deep and unshakable.

I’m talking about the love stories that make romance novels seem tame.

The kind of obsession so fierce it borders on unhinged.

These are the couples I grew up watching— idolizing.

Relationship goals isn’t just a hashtag in our family.

It’s gospel.

Something my parents and aunts and uncles practically invented with the way they held each other, defended each other, loved like their lives depended on it.

When I was a kid, I thought it was inevitable I’d find that too.

That I’d step into my own fairy tale.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.

And now, after telling Balor I love him, the fairy tale feels further away than ever.

Because he didn’t say it back.

And I don’t know if he ever will.

I know he wants me. I see it in the way his eyes linger on me like I’m the only thing worth looking at. In the way his hands claim me, possess me, as if I’m his to own.

But love? That’s different.

I don’t know if he’s capable. If he’s willing.

And that uncertainty gnaws at me.

Like a slow burn beneath my skin.

Because all I know is this, if Balor walks away— if he gets tired or scared or bored and leaves —it will break me.

And I have to be ready.