Page 24 of Monstrosity

That surprises a laugh out of him, short and rough. "Dios mio, woman."

"What? If people are trying to kill me, shouldn't I know how to defend myself?"

"I'll teach you," he promises. "Tomorrow. Tonight, you're safe here."

From the living room, Cali calls out, "Daddy, I'm thirsty!"

The moment breaks, and Rio steps back. "Let me get them ready for bed. Then we can?—"

"I'll help," I say, because that's what we do. We're a team, even if we haven't defined exactly what kind.

The next half hour is the chaos of bedtime routines.

Teeth brushing, pajamas, negotiations over how many stories constitute "just one more."

It's so beautifully normal that I can almost forget there are cartel members sitting outside watching the house.

Rio takes story duty while I clean up the kitchen, loading the dishwasher and wiping down counters.

Domestic and ordinary, except for how my hands shake slightly when I think about those photos Rio mentioned.

How long have they been watching me?

How many times have I been oblivious to danger while making lattes and small talk?

"They're asleep." Rio reappears in the kitchen doorway. "Out like lights."

"Good." I dry my hands, turn to face him. "Now, where were we?"

"Dasha—"

"No." I move toward him, done with the distance. "No more deflecting. No more protective nobility. Just the truth."

"Truth?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "The truth is that I've wanted you since the first time you smiled at me in that coffee shop. The truth is that I watch you with my girls and imagine a life I have no right to want. The truth is that every time you stay over, I lie awake thinking about walking down that hall to the guest room."

My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it. "Why don't you?"

"Because I'm selfish." His voice is raw. "Because once I have you, I won't be able to let go. Because you deserve better than a man with blood on his hands and enemies who want to hurt the people he loves."

"What if I don't want better?" I close the distance between us. "What if I want you?"

"Dasha—"

I kiss him.

It's not graceful or perfect.

It's desperate and hungry and years overdue.

For a moment, he goes completely still, and I think I've made a terrible mistake.

Then his arms come around me, and he's kissing me back like a drowning man who's finally found air.

He tastes like wine and promise and home.

His hands span my waist, pulling me against him until there's no space between us.

I make a sound I don't recognize, needy and wanting, and he groans in response.