Page 26 of The Enforcer (Damn! #2)

She blinked, and something fragile cracked in her expression, like a dam just barely holding. Her lips parted, but no sound came out, her throat too tight to form words. She nodded once, a trembling breath escaping as she did. It wasn’t just agreement. It was surrender. Willing. Raw. Real.

He reached for the hem of her dress and slid it upward with slow, careful hands. Not rushed. Not demanding. Just steady. His knuckles brushed her thighs as the fabric inched higher, and still he watched her face, not her body, watched for hesitation, for fear, for anything that told him to stop.

But there was none. Only the quickening of her breath, the parting of her lips, the quiet surrender in her eyes. As if she’d been waiting for this moment, not just to be touched, but to be fully understood.

He undressed her piece by piece, not as a man unwrapping a prize, but as if each layer was a question he didn’t want to rush, a page in a book he meant to read slowly, thoroughly.

Her shoulder strap slipped down, and he paused to kiss the line it left behind.

When he eased the dress over her hips, he did it like she might shatter if he moved too fast, like reverence itself had hands.

And she let him. Not with stillness, but with trust, leaning into every touch, breathing through every unspoken word.

And when she was bare before him, when she should have felt most exposed, she didn’t.

There was no shrinking, no instinct to cover herself.

Because Zane didn’t look at her like she was vulnerable.

He looked at her like she was the center of gravity, the reason the world turned at all.

Like every curve, every breath, every inch of her was something holy.

He looked at her like she was sacred.

He stripped down slowly, careful of the fresh bandage still tight around his ribs where the bullet had grazed him that morning. The skin beneath was raw, bruised, angry. But he didn’t hide it. Not the wound. Not the old scars. Not the bruises fading like smoke along his side.

He let her see it all, because it was him. Because if she was going to have him like this, she deserved to know what she was choosing. And because some part of him needed her to choose him anyway.

Joining her in bed pulled at the bandage along his ribs, the fresh ache a stark reminder that he’d been shot just that morning, a wound still healing in more ways than one.

He exhaled slowly. She lay beside him, still and quiet, her breath feathering the space between them.

So he waited, letting her feel the safety in that pause, the patience in his presence.

Letting her come to him on her own terms.

She moved first, shifting toward him, her breath catching as her body brushed his.

Her hand slid across his chest with slow certainty, fingertips tracing the line of muscle and scar.

When her fingers splayed against his skin, it wasn’t just consent, it was invitation.

A silent yes. A steadying promise. A need to be close, not just physically, but completely.

Then he kissed her.

Soft. Deep. With aching patience that curled between them like breath made visible. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a quiet unraveling, a trust laid bare, the kind of kiss that asked for nothing and gave everything.

He touched her the way he’d never touched anyone, certain, like he already belonged to her. He didn’t need to stake a claim, she was already his, in every way that counted, bound by choice, trust, and something deeper neither of them had words for. And possibly, by a child.

She was here. Choosing him. And his hands answered with quiet devotion. Like his hands could speak where words would only fail. Dante Brand to Dante Brand. Because that was what she was now. A Dante.

His mouth brushed her throat, her collarbone, the swell of her breast, each kiss slower than the last, drawn from some deep, quiet hunger that had everything to do with devotion.

He learned her by feel, by breath, by every shiver that chased across her skin, and treated each response like revelation.

She trembled beneath him. But not from fear.

From release.

When he finally slid inside her, it was with a reverence he hadn’t known he possessed.

He moved slowly, as if her body were a sacred place he’d been given permission to enter, not conquer.

No roughness. No hurry. Just the unbearable ache of finally giving all of himself to the woman who already held his loyalty, knew his scars, carried his name.

Every breath between them felt like a vow, every touch a prayer.

She wasn’t just his bride. She was his peace.

They moved together slowly, breath to breath, the kind of rhythm that didn’t seek climax, it found connection.

A rhythm shaped by trust, not urgency. His hand threaded with hers.

Her gaze never left his, even when her body arched and her breath faltered.

Every movement was deliberate, worshipful, a language spoken in silence and answered in touch.

She came with a soft cry, her hands clutching his shoulders, nails digging in as her back arched and her body clenched around him. The sound shattered something in him, cracked it wide open. He felt it not just in his body but somewhere deeper, someplace untried.

It wasn’t just about release, it was about being allowed in, being trusted with all of her.

And in that moment, he knew he’d never want anything else.

The sound she made, half-moan, half-whimper, went straight to his heart, and he followed with a guttural groan, thrusting deeper once, twice, before spilling into her.

He buried his face in her neck as they shook together, his body wrapping around hers not just like shelter, but possession. Like a man who knew he’d never let go.

Neither of them spoke.

They didn’t need to.

And when she curled into him afterward, when her hand found his beneath the covers and didn’t let go, Zane knew.

This was the first time it had ever been real.

THE SCENT hit first.

Lily stirred beneath soft white sheets, her limbs deliciously sore, her body wrapped in that rare, languid heaviness that only followed being thoroughly and completely loved.

She breathed in, slow and deep, still half-asleep, but her nose knew.

Coffee. Strong. Dark. Real. It threaded through the air like a promise, warm and supportive, curling into the quiet edges of her awareness before her mind fully caught up.

She blinked her eyes open just in time to see Zane setting a steaming mug on the nightstand beside her.

He was in his slacks, shirtless, his bandage peeking from beneath the edge.

His hair was a mess. A day-old beard clinging to him.

And he looked at her like he was memorizing her in real time, the way her nose crinkled, the sleep still soft in her eyes, the way her mouth curved before she even smiled.

Like the simplicity of her in that moment was something he’d never forget, even if the rest of the world burned down around them.

She sat up slowly, the blanket slipping slightly as she adjusted, bare shoulders catching the soft morning light.

Her hair was a tangle of sleep and more sleep, her eyes still heavy-lidded.

She reached for the mug with both hands, cradling it close, fingers curling around the warmth as if it could moor her to the moment, to him, to whatever came next.

“God,” she whispered, lifting it to her lips. “You didn’t tell me you brewed ambrosia.”

Zane arched a brow, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned one shoulder against the doorway. She looked so damn content, curled in his bed with his coffee like nothing in the world could touch her. Which made what he had to say feel heavier than it should’ve. His voice came out low, measured.

“We need to talk.”

She took her first sip, eyes fluttering closed, and let out a hum that slid straight under his skin.

Soft. Low. The kind of sound that made him want to forget every conversation that needed to happen.

She clasped the mug like it was a lifeline and sighed, slow and satisfied, utterly unaware that her reaction to coffee was doing terrible things to his willpower.

“Honeymoon over already?” she murmured, lips curving just enough to let him know she hadn’t lost her bite, coffee or no coffee.

His mouth twitched. “We need to head back to the penthouse. Today. Once we’re ready.”

She sipped again, slower this time. The warmth didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Something wrong?” she asked, her voice softer now, more guarded. Reality crept in, threading through the seams of her peace, reminding her this wasn’t a dream. Not anymore.

Zane nodded toward the chair where her clothes were folded. “Blackthorn Holdings is still a mess. We need to see what, if anything, can be salvaged. If it’s gone, then we shift focus, dig through the breach, trace the contract, and find out who the hell paid to use you.”

Lily lowered the mug slowly, her fingers tightening just once around the handle before letting it go.

Her posture straightened, subtle but visible, a quiet shift from softness to steel.

Sleep fell from her features like a curtain tugged down all at once, leaving her face sharper, her gaze clearer. Awake. Present. Ready.

“Right,” she said quietly. “Back to work.”

Zane leaned in, kissed her forehead, and whispered against her skin.

“But not before breakfast,” he murmured, brushing a slow kiss to her temple. “And not before I make love to you again, at least once more.”

They didn’t leave until late morning.

The drive from Titus’s estate to the penthouse was quiet, their convoy cutting through the city in perfect synchronization. Guarded cars flanked them on both sides, men in dark suits stationed at every possible entry point, watching, waiting.

Lily stared out the window, cradling a third, or maybe a fourth, cup of coffee like armor.

Zane kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift as the Dallas skyline came into view.

They didn’t speak until the car eased into the underground garage, the sound of the tires squealing against concrete louder than the silence between them.

Once inside the garage, they were ushered straight to the elevator, guards positioned around them like sentinels, ensuring no one dared get too close. The elevator doors slid open, and Lily stepped out first, her gaze sweeping over the sleek, immaculate hallway that led to the penthouse.

Two guards stood at attention just outside the penthouse suite, their expressions unreadable, eyes locked forward, ready for any movement.

Zane nodded briefly to them, his hand on the small of Lily’s back, guiding her forward as he took in the heightened security.

No one was getting past these men without his say-so.

They entered the penthouse, the door closing softly behind them.

The space was immaculate, clean lines, polished wood floors that gleamed under the low, soft lighting.

The scent of lemon oil, wood, and glass lingered in the air, fresh and sterile.

Everything in its place. Everything pristine.

Not a single detail out of place, as though the violence from earlier had never touched the space at all.

Even the faint scar left by the bullet was gone, the floor expertly repaired.

The windows gleamed, now reinforced with bulletproof panes that threw sunlight in sharp, perfect angles across the room.

Zane’s eyes scanned the area, his instincts still on high alert despite the calm.

Two guards stood outside the guest room, arms crossed, expressionless, waiting for orders.

The security in place felt suffocating, but he trusted it.

The penthouse was his world, and no one entered without his approval.

Inside, Lily’s gear waited. Zane nodded once to the guards, then dismissed them with a flick of his fingers.

They didn’t argue. Just turned and left.

Zane stepped to Lily’s side. He scanned everything with the practiced eye of someone who trusted nothing until it proved itself. Then his gaze flicked back to her, like a tether he couldn’t pull away from.

“Everything you need should be in there,” he said quietly.

Lily nodded, but her gaze lingered on the repaired floor, the gleaming windows.

Zane could see the subtle shift in her expression, her discomfort, her unease as she took in the scene.

She hadn’t expected it to feel like this, like she was no longer an outsider, but someone who belonged in this world.

And he knew she was already starting to feel the burden of it.

“I’ll get started,” she murmured.

Zane caught her wrist gently. “Lily.”

She looked up.

Her eyes were steady. Focused. But he saw it, the flicker beneath.

A crack in her composure, so faint he almost missed it.

The way her lips pressed together just slightly, the way her gaze darted from one corner of the penthouse to the other, like she was looking for something, anything, that made her feel less exposed.

Zane could feel the shift in the air between them, her uncertainty starting to pull her back into herself.

She wasn’t ready for this. Not yet. And he knew it.

Twice now, someone had tried to kill her, someone who’d aimed to take the life of the woman he’d sworn to protect. The thought of it made his blood boil, a violent ache that twisted in his gut. No one got to hurt her, not on his watch. Not ever again.

There was no doubt in his mind that he would kill those responsible.

He’d hunt them down, cut through their defenses, and make them pay.

The cold certainty of it settled inside him, a promise that wasn’t just to Lily, but to himself.

Anyone who threatened her would learn exactly how far he was willing to go.

He nodded toward the door to the guestroom. “Let’s find out who I’m going to kill for you,” he said quietly, his voice colder than the steel under his skin.

The words left his mouth laced like a promise, the depth of a threat, and the burden of knowing just how far he’d go to keep her safe. There was no hesitation, no second thoughts. Just the cold, unrelenting drive to protect her at any cost.