Page 1 of With this Ring (Mastered #7)

Three years ago

Always the bridesmaid…

This was the fourth wedding where Sasha had been forced into a horrific, frothy, itchy gown that looked terrible on her and she would have never chosen to wear.

If she was ever the bride, she wouldn’t make such awful choices.

She shoved the thought aside. The way her dating life looked, she would never receive a proposal.

Leah, today’s bride, insisted there was a reason Sasha found every man lacking. She was measuring them against an impossible standard, one that had been set more than a decade ago.

Sasha had shaken her head as she’d informed Leah she was wrong. But deep down, in a place she didn’t want to acknowledge, Sasha knew she was lying to herself.

Around her, the ballroom of the upscale boutique hotel in downtown Denver buzzed with conversation and laughter.

A band played in the corner. Obviously, the quartet with their smooth melodies had been chosen by Leah’s grandmother, who was paying for the whole shindig.

Sasha hadn’t recognized a single tune yet, and the music was too refined for her tastes.

She craved something with a beat, something she could lose herself in.

Right now, she would even settle for a line dance.

Nursing a glass of champagne, she stood at a tall, round table off to one side.

Her whole life, she’d been a misfit. She wouldn’t be here tonight if she hadn’t been paired with Leah on a college project, when they’d become fast friends.

With a sigh, Sasha took a sip, and the bubbles tickled her nose. The stuff was okay, no doubt uber expensive, but she had little appreciation for life’s finer things.

On the dance floor, the bride and groom swayed together, oblivious to everyone. They looked so happy, so in love. What would that be like?

Part of her envied them—a little.

But not enough to settle or give up the life she’d chosen.

“Sasha. Would you…would you like to dance?”

She glanced up at Tristan, the groomsman she’d been matched with for the festivities.

He sidled up to her, his shoulder brushing against hers. His expensive cologne was even more cloying than it had been earlier. How was that possible?

Tristan seemed harmless enough, even if all he talked about were his trips and cars. They had less than nothing in common, and in other circumstances she doubted he’d do anything other than look down his patrician nose at her.

Still, what harm was there in spending a few minutes in the arms of a man good-looking enough to pose for the cover of a Hampton’s fashion magazine, something he’d managed to mention twice?

“Sash?”

Maybe it was the sudden melancholy, a longing for something she might never have or the urge to hurry time along, but she gave him a fake smile. “Sure.” She slid her glass back onto the table.

The itchy fabric chafed her inner arms. With a sigh, she attempted to adjust the bodice of the gown.

“Let’s go.”

Instead of waiting for her, he headed to the dance floor. She trailed, seemingly an afterthought.

A pity dance for the wallflower?

Had Leah or her new husband put him up to this?

With a movement that wasn’t as smooth as she’d expected, he turned to her then pulled her into his arms, a little too close for her comfort.

His breath smelled of something much stronger than champagne.

Whiskey, maybe, or tequila. No wonder he’d taken a second bath in his cologne.

Something had to overpower the scent of alcohol.

How much of this song was left, anyway?

Without asking her anything about herself or making polite conversation, he extolled the virtues of his latest purchase, a car reported to cruise along at over two hundred miles an hour.

“Isn’t the top speed in this country eighty or eighty-five?”

“My car can be shipped to other places in the world. Or tested on racetracks.”

Schooled by the trust fund baby . “I see.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she forced a smile as he launched into his next monologue.

“What do you say…?”

Realizing she’d completely tuned him out, she blinked to clear her head. “Sorry?”

Impatiently, he expelled a breath. “I said we should head somewhere quieter.”

Before she could respond, the tiny hairs on her nape stood up, warning of danger.

Someone was watching her.

Surreptitiously, she looked around, scanning the crowd, but she noticed nothing amiss. And yet, the feeling persisted. It was like an itch between her shoulder blades, a prickle of awareness she couldn’t shake.

“Are you paying attention to me?” he whined, pulling her closer and sliding a hand lower on her spine.

She stiffened and eased back a little, not quite ready to bring her heel down on his instep but getting closer.

From nowhere, a hulking presence appeared and forcefully tapped Tristan’s shoulder.

“Get your fucking hands off her.”

Both she and Tristan froze.

Sasha would know his voice anywhere. The deep, rich baritone danced through her dreams, echoed through her fantasies.

Gregorio.

God save her.

No.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Tristan demanded.

Protector. Lethal warrior. Her fiercest defender. And biggest nemesis.

The man she measured everyone against.

Rather than answering, Gregorio leaned toward Tristan, getting in his face. When he spoke, his tone was controlled and steely, filled with threat. “Do you need me to repeat myself, pretty boy?”

Tristan’s eyes widened, but ego—and maybe whiskey—propelled him toward recklessness. “Look, dude, I’ll have you know—”

“Tristan,” she urged, finally able to shake off her paralysis in order to act. “Don’t.”

He opened his mouth again, but then he looked at Gregorio, who stood several inches taller and was much broader.

His massive biceps strained against the sleeves of his suitcoat.

No polite, civilized veneer could possibly hide the power coiled in his frame, the barely restrained violence.

A diamond earring winked from one ear.

In a past life, he could have been a pirate.

Gregorio was thrilling and terrifying all at once.

Even though Tristan was lean, in a yoga or runner type of way, they all knew Gregorio could take him apart in a single move.

What he didn’t know was that Gregorio would do just that, no matter the setting.

“I’ll give you the count of three to get lost.”

Immediately, Tristan released Sasha and stepped back.

He adjusted his tie as he cleared his throat. “Uh, yeah.” He looked her up and down. “Bitch like you isn’t worth the effort anyway.”

Her mouth dropped from shock.

“You signed your death warrant.”

Paling, Tristan pivoted and strode away.

Before she could recover, another song started. Gregorio swept her into his strong arms and moved them closer to the band, away from prying eyes.

“Interrupting my dance…” She could handle herself, and a man like Tristan wouldn’t have posed much of a challenge. “That was uncalled for.”

“Was it?”

He sounded appallingly unconcerned.

“I saved you, Sasha. Again.”

For most of her teenage years, he’d repeatedly stuck his nose in her business. He’d been her constant shadow, always watching, always intervening. It had been equal parts comforting and infuriating.

In so many ways, he’d helped her become the person she was today. “I can save myself, Gregorio,” she insisted. After all, she taught self-defense to others. She could lay out Tristan in the space of a heartbeat.

Gregorio swept a searing, appreciative gaze over her.

Then, before she could protest, he nudged her closer, leaving her no choice but to inhale his spicy, outdoorsy scent. It was familiar and foreign all at once, bringing back a rush of memories—late night conversations, shared laughter.

“I mean it, Gregorio.” She tried to pull back, but he tightened his grip. “You had no right to do that.”

“Hmm.” He flicked a casual glance toward Tristan, who was making a beeline to the bar.

“He’s not worth the time or effort.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

It’s my life we’re talking about.

“Pretty boy fucked up when he insulted you.”

“Just stop. I don’t need you to protect me.”

“He’s going to die tonight.” As if she hadn’t said a word, he continued, “Or at least regret being born.”

She shuddered. Not from fear, but from a sudden, visceral awareness of his strength, his power. It was like being caught in the gaze of a predator—exhilarating and paralyzing all at once.

“Furthermore, you should be thanking me.”

“ Thanking you?” He thought he could show back up in her life and tell her what to do? “You need to get over yourself.”

“He’d have been fun until he fucked you, then abandoned you. He’d have sweet-talked you into not using a condom, then refused to take responsibility.”

She gasped.

“You’re an investigator.” He lifted a shoulder in a casual shrug. “Look up the men you’re considering inviting inside your home.” He paused. “Or your body.”

Jesus. “I wouldn’t have let that happen.”

“Tell me he didn’t try to take you upstairs.”

Flushing, she looked away.

“He’d be good for a minute, maybe two.”

She opened her mouth to speak but no words emerged.

“If he could get it up after consuming all that alcohol.”

Sasha longed to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Selfish bastard wouldn’t have even gotten you off first.”

Emotions crashed through her—longing, desire, the illicit, forbidden thrill that came from having this conversation with a man she’d had a crush on.

“How is that different from most men?” Why did I say that?

She was in dangerous territory with him, and she shouldn’t poke the bear.

Heat chased up her neck and settled on her cheeks.

No way should she be in the arms of her former brother-in-law, talking about orgasms. Desperate to change the conversation, she narrowed her gaze. “Are you jealous?”

He chuckled, immediately dismissing her taunt—his sound one of pure male superiority. “Of him? Not a chance.”

“What I do and with whom I do it is not your concern.” She paused, then breathlessly rushed on. “And it never was, actually.”