Page 19

In the car, Revna is quiet for several blocks until she finally speaks up. "You bought my sister a car."

"Yes, I did. I’m no fool, Revna. I’m winning you over, but I don’t just have to win you, I need to win your sister’s favor as well."

"You’re smarter than I think, but you could have told me what you were doing."

"I was planning to tell you tonight. After dinner." I glance at her. "Are you upset?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." She laughs, slightly hysterical. "You bought my sister a bulletproof car."

"I bought my sister-in-law a bulletproof car," I correct. "There's a difference."

"Sister-in-law," she repeats. "God, that makes it real."

"It's been real since you were fifteen, Revna. We're just catching up to what was aligned for us."

The restaurant is perfect—dim lighting, soft music, discreet staff who seat us in a corner booth without fuss.

Revna looks around, taking in the understated elegance.

"This is nice," she admits.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"I half expected some over-the-top power play. Private dining room, ten-course meal, waiters who only speak when spoken to."

"I considered it," I admit, making her laugh. "But I thought this might be more... us."

"Us," she repeats softly. "Are we an us?"

"We're something."

The waiter brings wine—a Pinot Noir I know she likes.

She raises an eyebrow. "Let me guess, you know my wine preference from surveillance?"

"Actually, Rhiannon told me. Apparently, you bonded over wine and champagne chats during the dress fitting."

"Oh." She looks almost disappointed. "That's surprisingly normal."

"I have my moments."

We order—she gets the salmon, I get the steak, and we share an appetizer that she insists on.

The conversation flows easier than expected, helped by the wine and the growing comfort between us.

"Can I ask you something?" she says as our entrees arrive.

"Anything."

"Your knuckles are bruised… what happened? Something with business?"

Observant.

I should have expected that from a future lawyer, I also know I can’t tell her the nitty gritty details she’s looking for.

"A business complication, little wolf. Nothing you need to worry about," I say carefully.

"Someone died?"

"Someone learned a lesson."

She processes this, cutting into her salmon with precise movements. "Will there always be blood?"

"Yes." No point in lying. "But never yours. Never our children's. Never anyone you love."

"Our children," she repeats. "You've thought that far ahead?"

"Haven't you?"

She takes a sip of wine instead of answering. "I need to tell you something. About Njal."

My hand tightens on my fork, but I keep my voice even. "What about him?"

"I think he might be bipolar. Like his brother." She meets my eyes. "The behavior, the mood swings, the way he’s thinking—it all fits. If he's having a manic episode and he's not medicated..."

"He could be dangerous," I finish.

"Or just sick." There's compassion in her voice that makes me both love and hate her a little. "I'm not making excuses for him. But if he does something stupid, it might not be entirely his fault."

I think about the journal pages, the wall of photos. "Would it change how you feel? If something happened to him?"

"I don't know," she admits. "I cared about him. Past tense, but still. Two years is a long time to just... switch off feelings."

"I know."

She looks at me sharply. "Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you decided I was yours five years ago and never wavered."

"I wavered." The admission surprises us both. "The night of your high school graduation. You wore this white dress, had flowers in your hair. You looked... free. Happy. I sat in my car outside the venue and thought about letting you go. Letting you have a normal life."

"What changed your mind?"

"You did. Some boy tried to grab you on the dance floor at an after party. You broke his wrist." I smile at the memory. "That's when I knew normal was never going to be enough for you."

"So you decided to be my abnormal?"

"Something like that."

She laughs, shaking her head. "You're completely insane."

"Probably."

"I kind of like it," she admits quietly.

The rest of dinner passes in a blur of conversation and wine.

She tells me about law school, her professors, her dreams of working in criminal law—"ironic, I know." I tell her about the legitimate side of my business, the real estate developments that launder the darker money.

"We're going to be quite the power couple," she observes. "The lawyer and the criminal."

"The queen and her king," I correct.

"Possessive and cheesy. Wonderful combination."

But she's smiling, relaxed in a way I haven't seen before.

When I suggest we go back to my place for a drink, she agrees without hesitating at all.

The city lights blur past as I drive faster than necessary, both of us eager for what we know is going to happen once we get there.

She's turned toward me in her seat, studying me.

"What?" I ask.

"Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how this is nothing like I expected." She touches my hand on the gear shift. "You're nothing like I expected."

"Disappointed?"

"Jury's still out."

But her fingers intertwine with mine, and I know she's lying.

Inside my penthouse, I pour us drinks—whiskey for me, wine for her.

She kicks off her heels, immediately losing three inches, and pads barefoot to the windows.

"The view is still incredible," she says.

"So is mine." I'm watching her, the way the city lights play across her skin.

She turns, catching me staring. "Smooth."

"I have my moments."

"Yeah?" She sets down her wine, walks toward me with intent in her eyes. "What other moments do you have?"

"Why don't you find out?"

She stops just out of reach. "I've been thinking about last night all day."

"What about it?"

"About how you touched me. How you looked at me." She steps closer. "About how I want you to do it again."

"Revna—"

"Shut up." She reaches up, pulls me down to her level. "Less talking."

The kiss is hungry, nothing like what happened last night.

She knows what she wants now, and apparently, what she wants is me. Her hands are already working at my shirt buttons, impatient.

I back her against the windows, the city spread out behind her like a glittering backdrop.

My hand slides up her body, past her ribs, her chest, settling at the base of her throat.

I pause, waiting.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," I say against her mouth.

She pushes into my hand, eyes dark with need. "Don't you dare stop."

The slight pressure makes her gasp, pupils dilating.

I watch her face carefully, reading every micro-expression as my other hand finds the hem of her dress.

"Look at me," I command softly.

She does, maintaining eye contact as I hike up her dress.

The trust in her eyes nearly undoes me—this woman who should fear me, who has every reason to hate me, giving me this power over her.

"You're shaking," I observe.

"Not from fear."

"No?"

"No." She arches into me. "Please, Doran."

I've never heard her beg before.

The sound goes straight through me.

What follows is a claiming—there's no other word for it.

Her reflection in the window, the city lights witnessing as I take her apart piece by piece.

My hand on her throat, not squeezing but present, a reminder of power freely given.

She comes undone with my name on her lips, and I follow her over, marking her as mine in the most primal way possible.

After, I carry her to the bedroom, her legs unsteady.

The second time is slower, tender, learning each other without the desperate edge.

She discovers the scar on my hip from a deal gone wrong, traces it with her tongue.

I map every sensitive spot on her body, filing away what makes her gasp, what makes her moan.

"I didn't know I'd like that," she admits later, curled against my chest. "The... hand thing."

"I hoped you would."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted you to see that giving up control doesn't make you weak." I stroke her hair. "It takes strength to trust someone with that power."

"Do you trust me?"

"More than anyone."

She's quiet for a moment. "That's either beautiful or deeply concerning, considering your trust issues."

"Both."

We lie in silence, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest.

This is what I imagined all those years—not just the sex, but this.

The after.

The intimacy of skin on skin, breathing synced, guards down.

"I need to tell you something," I say eventually.

"If it's bad news, can it wait? I'm in a post-orgasmic happiness bubble."

"It's good news. I think."

She props herself up on an elbow, looking down at me. "Okay..."

"When I told Dalla about the car earlier, I didn't explain why." I trace her spine, gathering my thoughts. "It's not just about protection. It's about showing you that I understand—she's not just your sister, she's part of you. Where you go, she goes."

"Doran..." Her voice is thick with emotion.

"I've watched you two for years. You're a unit. I'm not just marrying you, I'm accepting that she comes with you. Always." I pull her closer. "That protective anger on her face tonight? That's love. I respect that. I want to earn that from her too, eventually."

"Thank you," she whispers. "For understanding. For not making me choose between you and her."

"You'll never have to choose. Whatever you need, whoever you love, it all comes with you into this marriage."

"Even if what I need is to finish law school? Have my own career?"

"Especially then. I told you—I don't want a prisoner. I want a partner."

"A queen," she corrects, remembering our earlier conversation.

"My queen."

"Possessive bastard."

"Your possessive bastard."

She curls back into my chest, and I hold her close, thinking about how much has changed in just a couple of days.

Nine days until our wedding.

Nine days to convince her that this arranged marriage might be the best thing that ever happened to both of us, and I think I’m off to a good start.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Mikhail's name on the screen means it's important.

"I need to take this," I tell her.

"Okay."

I answer, listening to Mikhail's quick report.

When I hang up, Revna's watching me with knowing eyes.

"Njal?" she asks.

"Someone matching his description was spotted at a gas station in Texas. Heading west, like we thought."

"So he's running?"

"Maybe." I pull her closer. "Or maybe he's planning something. Either way, we'll be ready."

"We," she repeats. "I like the sound of that."

"Get used to it. In nine days, it's going to be us for the rest of our lives."

"That's either a promise or a threat."

"Both," I say, echoing our earlier exchange. "Definitely both."

She falls asleep in my arms, trusting and content.

I stay awake longer, plans within plans spinning through my mind.

Njal to find, a wedding to secure, an empire to run, and now a wife who's becoming so much more than an arrangement.

Nine days.

I can hardly wait.

Then again, I’ve been waiting for this day for years.