Never After

Wendy

"DARLING."

I turn around at the term of endearment, my eyes crinkling with a smile when I see James walk into our bedroom on the yacht. My heart skips a beat as he makes his way toward me, and as I take in his crisp black suit and perfectly styled hair, my fingers tingle, remembering how I was tugging on the strands two hours ago when he snuck into my shower and shoved his head between my thighs.

My stomach flutters.

You'd think after a decade together, our passion would have waned, but it's only grown. When you're with someone for as long as we've been together, when you love someone for as long as we've been lucky enough to love, they become etched in your skin, their wants and needs a muscle memory instead of a road map.

They say it takes doing something ten thousand times before you become a master at the task, and I can say that when it comes to James, he's an expert in everything that has to do with both my pain and my pleasure.

"I didn't think you'd be ready so soon," I say, quirking a brow as I spin back toward the mirror and push the last pin into my hair, watching his reflection.

He smirks, his blue eyes sparkling as he moves behind me, wrapping his arm around my waist and tugging my back to his front. Another shot of desire whips through my middle and I bite the inside of my lip, trying to stifle my reaction to my husband's presence, not wanting him to ruin my makeup when he promised me a night on the town.

But James doesn't miss a thing.

His hand trails down the front of my skintight baby-blue dress - the one I'm wearing just for him - bunching the silky fabric in his grip and dragging it up my thigh until he slips beneath the hem. Goose bumps sprout along my skin when his fingertips graze against my clit.

"No panties?" He presses down and my arousal leaks down the inside of my thighs. "Naughty girl," he whispers against the shell of my ear. "It's almost as though you want me to lose control."

I blow out a shaky breath, leaning my weight against his solid frame, my heart beating so loudly I can hear it in my ears.

He isn't wrong. I do want him to lose control.

His free hand glides up my torso and over the swell of my chest until his palm wraps around my throat like a necklace. "Are you trying to get somebody killed? I assure you that's what will happen if I see a man so much as look at you while I know you're bare beneath this devastating dress."

"It's just for you," I say, my breaths puffing out in a stuttered rhythm. "Only for you."

"Is that right?" he rumbles.

His fingers glide through my folds until they slip inside of me, and my eyes roll back, my head falling on to his shoulder.

"You're needy and exposed just for me?"

"Ye-yes," I gasp out.

He hums, his grip tightening around my throat and tension coils in my abdomen. His thumb presses against my clit, causing my back to arch against him.

"That's it, perfect girl. You're doing so well."

Fire licks up my thighs and settles in my groin, and I move my hips against his hand, desperate for relief. My insides pull taut and I don't think I can take a second more, but then the pressure snaps, and I explode into a thousand fragments, light blinding my vision and my soul soaring out of my body.

I ride his fingers through every single moment, my nails digging into his wrist to hold him in place. Slowly, the pleasure recedes and my eyes clear.

"Stunning," James purrs into my ear, his thick erection pressing into the middle of my back. "Angie is here to watch the children, darling. Keep the panties off. I want to sit across from you at dinner and know your pussy is on display just for me."

He grins, a wicked gleam coasting across his eyes, and I turn toward him, pressing up on my toes and pecking his lips. Before I can pull away, his powerful grip is at the nape of my neck, dragging me back in, his tongue slipping between my lips and kissing me until I lose my breath. My sensitive core clenches and spasms, begging for more. I'm always needy with him.

When he releases me, he rests his forehead against mine, and as he rolls it slowly back and forth, my arousal deepens into something else. Something more vulnerable. An intense, all-consuming feeling that presses beneath the surface of my skin and seeps out of every single pore.

"I love you," I breathe against his mouth.

His hand moves, jostling at his side before sliding up my spine. A cold sensation drapes around my neck, and then there's a soft click. I glance down, my eyes widening at the blue sapphire necklace.

"Happy anniversary,Wendy darling."He pulls back and grabs my hand, pressing it against his chest, over his beating heart. "My life wasn't worth living before you were in it."

Tears prick the corner of my eyes and I swallow around the sudden knot of emotion. I spent most of my life hoping to have a man who loved and cherished me. And James? He's everything I could have asked for and more.

____________________

James

THERE ISN'T much that I regret.

But I will spend every second for the rest of my life making up for all the ways I failed Wendy so many years ago. She is my perfect half, my better half, and I know no matter what I do, a man like me will never deserve her.

She softens my edges, although I'd never admit it out loud. In fact, if you ask any of the lost boys, they'll tell you I'm more ruthless now than I was before her.

But now I have a family to protect, and I don't take any risks when it comes to them.

It took being on my knees with a gun pressed to my temple to realize that my poor decisions and blindness to my surroundings were a byproduct of things that happened to me as a child. That my trauma made me incapable of thinking logically, and as a result, almost had me losing everything that mattered. And while I know I don't deserve it, I thank God every day that my wife was just broken enough from her own issues to forgive me so easily. Maybe that makes me a poor excuse of a man, but I am only a man. As it is, I like to think I've spent the last ten years making up for the mistakes I've made, even if they do still haunt my dreams.

After so many years of looking back on all the things you've done wrong, you start to see the world through a sharper lens.

She's given me everything. I have beautiful children and a younger brother I love dearly, but it doesn't change the fact that having them at all is dangerous. So I work in the shadows, the same as I always have, and I keep my family there with me.

And when I'm with Wendy, I leave everything else behind. She consumes me just as much now as she did that first night I saw her walk into my bar.

She sighs, undoing the straps of her heels as she walks through the master bedroom in our penthouse apartment. We've just arrived after going out for a candlelit dinner, and I intend to keep her up and screaming my name all night long.

I bought this place for us eight years ago, after I decided we needed somewhere other than the yacht to build our lives. I could live every day on the boat, but I know Wendy still has problems on the water, even though she'll never say it out loud, and more than anything else, I want to make sure she's taken care of. Besides, it's advantageous to have a place I can take her with no one there to interrupt. I quite like being able to sink inside of her for as long as I wish.

My cock jerks as I watch her fingers run over her new sapphire necklace. "It's so beautiful, James," she says.

I walk up behind her, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her into me just as I did earlier tonight, making sure she can feel every single inch of my hardness against her. I want her to know what she does to me. What only she does.

She pushes her ass into me, moaning as her hand sneaks back and grips me through my slacks. I let out a slight growl, thrusting my hips into her hand, pleasure curling through me like a slow fog as she strokes my length.

"Strip," I demand. "And then move to the bed. I want you wearing nothing but that necklace, with your legs spread wide, so I can see your pretty cunt."

She sucks in a sharp breath, her cheeks flushing, and my stomach flips in response, loving the way she still turns so pink for me after all these years.

Slowly, she peels off her dress and then unclips her bra, my chest tightening as her skin is exposed inch by torturous inch. I stay still and watch her, lust clouding my vision as she sways her hips and walks to the bed, crawling on the mattress and then flipping over until she's sitting on her knees.

I bite back the groan as heat pierces through me, and I undo my belt, dropping my slacks until my cock bobs free, throbbing and ready. Reaching down, I stroke myself from root to tip, my balls tensing when Wendy licks her lips like she's desperate to have me on her tongue.

She looks up at me from beneath her lashes as I walk toward her, and when I reach the foot of the bed, I let go of myself and reach out, grasping her chin between my thumb and forefinger and tilting her face up to meet my gaze.

"You've been a very good girl tonight. Do you know that?"

She preens beneath my hand and it makes my cock twitch, eager to slip between her pouty lips so she can suck me down, the way she knows I love.

My touch moves from her chin, grazing down the front of her throat, until it hits her collarbone. I use a bit of force to push her back until she's laid out in front of me, her chest heaving, bare breasts lush and nipples hard, begging for me to pull them into my mouth.

"Do you know how much control it took for me to not slaughter every man who had his eyes on you tonight?" I rasp, leaning forward to press kisses against her sugary skin. "It was torturous. None of them were worthy enough to so much as look at you."

I circle my tongue over a nipple, drawing the bud into my mouth and biting until she arches into me.

Delicious.

I move my hand down until I'm palming the wetness of her cunt, collecting her arousal like a treasure and bringing it up to my lips as if it's the sweetest ambrosia. I groan when her flavor hits my tongue and then I'm on her, diving and sucking her clit into my mouth, my fingers plunging into her until she lets out a harsh moan.

"James," she mewls, her fingers threading through the strands of my hair.

"That's right, pet," I murmur in between licks of her pussy. "It's me who makes you feel this way."

I release her from my mouth, continuing the rhythm of my fingers, my lips wet with her taste as I move up and hover my body over hers.

Her eyes are dark and wild, her pupils blown, and the sight of her this way, so unrestrained and lost in how she feels, makes cum bead at the tip of my cock. I'm aching to sink into her until she makes me lost. The same way she always has.

"Tell me," I say, removing my fingers and lining my cock up to her entrance. My other hand grasps her throat.

"I'm yours," she whispers as she lifts her head, pressing her lips to mine.

My hips press against hers as I surge forward in one deep thrust. I fuck her hard, long and steady strokes as I tighten my grip on her neck, careful to avoid her windpipe.

The sound of our skin slapping is loud, and the smell of our sex permeates the air. Her cunt massages me on every forward motion, and I bite the inside of my lip to keep from coming.

"I want to feel us," she pants, reaching down and spreading her fingers around the base of my shaft. The added sensation of her hand slipping along my length with every thrust makes me spiral quickly.

"Such a perfect girl," I coo. My knuckles look beautiful against the creamy expanse of her neck. "You're taking my cock so well. You were made for me, darling."

Her head falls to the side, and she opens her mouth on a gasp, and then she's coming hard, her walls pulsing around me.

Heat spreads through my body and collects at the base of my spine, then explodes, and I shoot deep inside of her, my balls spasming as I pump her full of my cum.

My ears ring as I catch my breath, and after a few moments I slip out of her, rolling onto my back. She exhales and cuddles up against my side, our sweat slicked skin evidence of the way she still drives me mad.

"I love you," I murmur. "Every night?" she replies.

I smirk, something warm expanding into my chest. A decade later and she still says it almost every day. I'm not sure if it's to keep Ru's memory alive or if she's adopted it as her own, but either way, who am I to deny her?

"And straight on 'til morning, Wendy darling."

Tristan

INTERVIEWS.

It's something I have no interest in doing, but Simon begged for Sara and me to make an appearance. "Uncle, please. Come fully into the twentieth century with the rest

of us."

Still, I refused. I have no urge to speak with reporters. Nothing that could possibly be happening in my life that I feel is any of their or the people's business. I've done my part for Gloria Terra, more than I ever wanted to if we're being completely honest, and now that I've accomplished what I set out to do, I want to spend my time basking in everything that is my little doe.

But being here makes Simon happy, which makes Sara happy. And whatever Sara wishes for, she gets.

Simon knows it too. He only has to go to his lady for me to give in. It's rare he'll ever come straight to me for anything these days, not that he needs to. Although I'll never admit it out loud, he's done a far better job of ruling the kingdom than I ever did.

Truth be told, I've never cared much for what happens to others, my goal was always to simply take the throne for myself because I deserved it. Because people should revere me instead of mocking me the way they did while I was growing up.

And Simon has qualities that I lack.

Empathy.

A moral goodness that skipped over my generation. He isn't sunshine and rainbows by any stretch of the imagination, but people manifest trauma in different ways, and while Simon has maintained his innate goodness, he's rough around the edges. Long gone is the little lion I used to know, and a fierce king was born into his place. He's never talked about his time away - the time that I sent him away - but I know demons when I see them, and Simon has several to keep him warm through the cold winter nights.

He's a better man than I am.

He keeps his nightmares at bay. Usually.

I'm still around for whenever he has need of me, but as the years drag on, the calls to court have become less and less, until Sara and I have been perpetual ghosts, lingering in the dark. It's the way I prefer it.

Even though living life in the shadows is much different now than it was a decade ago.

The 1920s have changed the foundation of society to something it's never been before, and while I do enjoy the new developments and technological advances, I can't say I enjoy being thrust in the limelight.

Once upon a time that was my goal, but these days, I just want solitude and Sara.

"Your Royal Highness," the reporter bows before sitting down across from me in his tweed suit, twiddling a pen in his hand.

I lean back, enjoying his discomfort, lighting the end of my joint with the lighter Sara bought me as a birthday gift, before reaching over and tangling my fingers with hers, settling our hands nicely in the center of my lap.

The reporter is a scrawny fellow, his brown hair greased back and round spectacles on his face. They remind me of Xander. Disgust curdles through my middle.

He wades through the preapproved questions, Sara jumping in to reply far more than me, and with every question she answers, he grows a little more in tune with her. His eyes sparkle a little brighter. His smile deepens into something more.

Something I don't like.

My gaze narrows as his flicks down from her face, coasting over the swells of her breasts that peek out ever so subtly from her dress, after she raves to him of the new era and how Simon is ushering in great things for our people. Irritation bursts through my chest and spreads through my veins at the disrespect. I lean back farther in my chair, splaying my legs in front of me and bringing the joint to my lips, inhaling the smoke slowly. I move Sara's hand from mine, and then reach over, grasping the top of her thigh, squeezing until her body jolts the smallest bit.

Improper?

Undoubtedly.

But Sara is mine and if I have to claim her in front of a thousand people, let alone a nobody reporter, I'll do it.

"So tell me," the reporter clears his throat, his eyes following the movement of my hand. "What is it that the infamous Prince Tristan Faasa and Princess Sara Faasa do with their time?"

She glances over to me a small smile lining her perfect face. I tighten my grip, the insides of my fingers brushing back and forth against her thigh.

My cock twitches thinking about how I had her on every surface of our estate before making our way here - how my cum is still dripping down the inside of her leg, bleeding out from her cunt where I filled her up until she wouldn't be able to move without feeling me.

"Don't be shy, ma petite menteuse," I rumble, smirking at her. "Tell the man what we were doing before you dragged me here." Her curly hair bounces as she shakes her head and laughs. "Tristan and I find plenty of ways to pass the time. Mainly, we enjoy taking in how His Majesty has continued our work of ensuring Gloria Terra prospers, and we continue to help in that regard whenever and wherever we can."

The reporter's eyebrows lift. "Oh?"

She grins, and my hand tightens. "Yes, of course. If we aren't at home, we're traveling to regions on the out-skirts, making sure their grievances are heard so we can bring them back to His Majesty and ensure all our people are taken care of." Sara turns toward me, her dark eyes flickering with pride. "Anything you'd like to add?"

Nodding, I agree with her. "I'm very proud to call the King family."

The reporter's face changes then, a wicked gleam coasting over his features, and he leans forward, his chair creaking from the movement. "But between us, he isn't your family... not fully anyway, is he?"

Sara stiffens and my teeth dig into the side of my cheek. I lean back, a smile gracing my face as I place the butt of the joint down on the ashtray to my left.

This pathetic excuse of a man was already treading on thin water with me from the way he thought he had the right to look at Sara, but now he's going to die.

Having Sara didn't soften me. Gaining a family did nothing to temper the blackness that oozes between the cracks of my stitched - up soul. And when someone deserves death for their disrespect, I feel giddy with the chance to give them their comeuppance.

"You'd do well to watch your mouth when it comes to speaking of His Majesty," Sara spits, her gaze soaring across the room and cutting into the man like razors. "You could be hung for treason... or worse."

I harden as I watch her. Her violence always has turned me on and made me ravenous. I think I'll fuck her in the automobile on the way home, let her take her aggression out as she rides my cock in the backseat.

My head leans to the side, and I run my fingers down the front of my suit and address the man. "I'm quite sure I don't know what you mean."

"Well, I mean... technically speaking, he's the basta-"

I shoot out of my seat quickly, my rings clacking as I grip his face between my fingers and squeeze until his lips mash together. Leaning in, I speak against his ear. "Think very carefully about your next words. My wife is correct. Not only is it treason, but on a personal level, I'll take offense."

His body trembles as I step back, loosening my grip slightly on his face. The room is quiet except for the rustle of Sara's skirts as she moves to stand beside me. She places her hand on my arm and I glance over at her, fire thrumming through my veins, needing to end this man's life.

"Tristan, not here," she whispers.

My jaw clenches and I squeeze the reporter's face tighter in my hands until I'm sure I'll leave bruises, and then begrudgingly I release him, allowing him to fall back into his chair with a plop. I turn and grab Sara by the back of her neck and drag her into me, melding our lips together and snaking out my tongue to tangle with hers.

Even after all these years, she tastes like everything good.

She tastes like mine.

Breaking away, I close my eyes and rest my forehead against hers, keeping my hand clasped around her. Violence thrums through me to the heightened beat of my heart. "Be a good girl, ma petite menteuse, and go wait outside with Edward and your guards for me. I'd rather you not see what happens to the fools who dare to disrespect us."

She stares at me for long moments, and I keep her gaze. After a moment she nods, certainly realizing that she won't win if she fights me on this. She leans in and presses a chaste kiss to my lips before spinning around and letting her personal guards lead her out of the door.

A thin smile spreads across my face as I turn back to the pathetic man who dared to call my nephew a bastard and think he could stare at Sara with repercussions.

It's been a long time since I've had the outlet for my darker tendencies anyway. This will be a treat.

____________________

Sara

THERE'S SMALL SPLATTERS OF BLOOD ON THE cuff of Tristan's suit, but my eyes are only on it for a moment before he's inside the automobile and reaching out to grasp me roughly again behind the neck. He drags me into him until our bodies are plastered together. Awkward in the small space but not the first time he's taken me in the back of our vehicle.

We're in a deserted area on the outskirts of Saxum, no one is around to see, but even if they were, I hardly think I'd be able to find it in me to care. My adrenaline is running too high, my need for him is too strong.

Like it always is.

I moan when his teeth bite into my lower lip.

Do I think that reporter deserved to die?

Not truly.

But over the years, I've found it increasingly difficult to care. People are quick to whisper behind Simon's back, regardless of the fact he's their king, and Tristan's steadfast loyalty to our nephew does nothing but make me love him more.

It's quite attractive.

I wrap my arms around Tristan's neck, letting my nails dig into his skin until I feel it break, and he slams me back until I'm flat against the seats.

"Let me inside of you, little doe. I want the world to hear you scream."

My stomach tightens in anticipation as I fumble with the buttons on his trousers until he's popping out, hard and ready, the tip of him leaking with excitement.

He pushes up my skirt and rips my underwear from between my legs and my fingers wrap around his thick shaft, pulling him closer, needing him to fill me up.

You'd think after so many years that the urge would die down, that this incessant need would cease to be so completely overwhelming, but it hasn't. If anything, it's the opposite.

Being with Tristan is like breathing.

It's intrinsic. Effortless. He's the other half of my soul, intertwined so tightly that his flawed parts fit my missing pieces. If I don't have him then I don't have myself. Nothing besides that matters.

He thrusts violently, aggressively, as if he can't stand the thought of not being inside of me for another second. I suck in a harsh breath at the way his cock hits every single inch of my insides so perfectly and I lift my hips when he pulls back, needing to feel him again. We start a punishing rhythm, a give and take, and I'm sure he's speaking terribly naughty things in my ear, but I'm so lost in the pleasure that it's difficult to focus on what they are. I'm wound so tightly that I know it will only take moments for me to come.

His hand wraps around the back of my curly strands of hair and tugs harshly. "That's right, filthy girl, drench my cock. Give it to me like a good little wife."

That's all I need, and before I can stop it, I'm falling, clenching around him while I fly apart into a thousand different pieces and hope he's there to put me back together again.

He follows soon after, the spasms of his bare cock sending me into another bout of ecstasy as he groans deeply in my ear and collapses on top of me.

Our tryst was quick and dirty, the way they often are, and just the way I like. I know he'll take his time with me once we're back home at the countryside estate. The same one his mother was in before he put her to death.

Slowly, he pulls himself out, tucking himself back into his trousers. But he doesn't clean me up, choosing to leave his cum dripping out of me the same way he did earlier before we went to the interview.

He isn't worried about getting me pregnant. It hasn't happened yet, and for all intents and purposes I don't think it will. Some things aren't in the cards for people, and I've never ached for a child the way other women do.

My love is reserved for my husband, and our nephew, and the people of Gloria Terra.

And one day, after we're both dead and gone, we'll get buried in the earth next to each other, and become the soil that nurtures the grass, which grows the crops that feed the people.

Even in death, we'll continue to prosper.

And that's enough for me.

Evelina

Storms haven't bothered me in a long time.

In fact, I find the thunder soothing with the way it rumbles through the sky, sprinkled with flashes of light while rain pelts against everything it touches.

It's nice to know that even Mother Nature unleashes her wrath on anything and everything without regard to who gets hurt when they're in her torrential path.

A small fire crackles in the middle of the living room, the orangey blaze framed by white painted bricks and beautiful pieces of furniture handcrafted by Nicholas over the past few years. The hot tea in my hands warms my fingertips and I breathe in the chamomile scent as I curl my legs beneath me in my favorite oversize chair. I had it placed directly beneath the largest window of our cottage, showcasing the shades of green from the forest that surrounds us.

Today, nature is angry.

And she's beautiful when she gets mad.

I try to remember the last time a storm affected me. Try to pinpoint the exact moment it went from being just another storm to something that makes me want to retreat into solitude and find comfort in.

A memory hits me out of nowhere.

It's different now that Dad is gone and locked up in prison.

Mom has gotten even meaner, if that's possible. Nessa says she's struggling with being a single parent. I say she never really was a parent to begin with. Now, she disappears four to five times a week, trying to get us to believe she's down at the cathedral to pray or spending time with our father during visiting hours. But I see the way she comes home with mussed-up hair and smudged lips. And I watched out the windon one night when some random man dropped her off in his fancy black car and she about sucked his face off before walking back in the front door.

Even with Dorothy, she's changed.

And that's done absolutely nothing except make Dorothy ache for her attention even more.

Nessa jostles my arm as she drags me out onto our back porch, the air outside eerily calm and still other than the loud sirens wailing through the quiet.

"I thought tornadoes were supposed to be windy," I say, my hand gripping my journal tight to my side as small tendrils of panic weave their way through my middle.

Nessa doesn't respond, most likely because she's too busy dropping me in place and spinning around to drag Dorothy down the steps and across the grass until we hit the underground shelter about fifty feet away, just before the line of trees start in our backyard.

"God, Evie, do you ever not sound stupid?" Dorothy spits, jerking her head to glare at me.

"Shut up, both of you," Nessa snaps.

Nessa's wearing dark-blue jeans, and when she stands back up after having dropped down to haul the heavy cellar door open, there's dirt and grime and a little bit of blood seeping from the frayed holes across her knees.

Guilt nags at the back of my brain. Maybe I should have helped.

Nessa waves an arm frantically, her brown hair whipping through the air as the wind starts to pick up, the eerie stillness disappearing in an instant. I go underground first, my foot slipping on the narrow metal ladder as I make my way into the space. It smells musty and dank down here, and there's a dim light that casts a warm yellow glow around the small space, controlled by a string.

I rack my brain, trying to remember the last time I've been here. I don't remember it being so small.

It's cold as I make my way over to the corner and huddle against the concrete wall, trying to blot out the noise of the wind as it grows stronger and whips across the ground above me.

Nessa is fighting with Dorothy again, but it's hard to hear over the rest of the noise.

I see Nessa's arm reach out and grip Dorothy's tightly, half shoving her down to the ladder. "I swear to god, Dorothy, if you don't get your skinny ass down in that shelter, I'll kill you myself."

"I'm not going without finding her first." Dorothy's voice, high and panicked, filters through the open cellar door, her feet stumbling on the steps.

Nessa pushes her way into the space, forcing Dorothy to move farther down. "She's fine, Dorothy."

"You don't know that," Dorothy replies, her voice cracking.

They're talking about our mother, of course. There's no one else who Dorothy would be so up in arms about. I didn't even think about her being gone or about her safety through the storm. Maybe that makes me a bad person. But I'm only giving her the same energy she'd give me in return.

Dorothy plops down in the middle of the room against the wall and Nessa sits next to her, reaching out to drag me into her side, hugging me close. She reaches for Dorothy too, but Dorothy jerks back, scoffing.

Something smashes against the top of the door, the cellar rattling like giants are trying to rip open the lock. I lean further into Nessa.

Dorothy lurches forwards, trying to escape up the ladder. "What if Mom's inside looking for us? For me? We need to make sure she's okay!"

Nessa drops me from her side like a sack of hot potatoes, and pain shoots through my arm when my elbow hits the concrete ground. She moves quickly, grabbing Dorothy around the waist and pulling her back down.

Dorothy fights against her for a few seconds, but Nessa is bigger and stronger, and in the end, Dorothy gives up the fight, small hiccups and sobs breaking through her pinched mouth as she sinks into Nessa's hold.

My stomach churns violently as I watch Nessa stroke her hair and rock her back and forth.

Another harsh slap against the cellar door makes my insides jump, and I can't help the little bit of sluggish green jealousy that drips through my muscles when Nessa coos to Dorothy to keep her calm.

I'm here too. I'm scared too.

But like usual, I end up soothing myself.

Eventually, the storm passes and we make our way back up the ladder and into the yard. The house is still standing, although half the roof is torn off, and there's debris and broken trees everywhere.

The air is silent again, like nature's gone to sleep after having the temper tantrum of a lifetime.

Dorothy immediately runs off, searching for our mother, but of course, she isn't here.

And she doesn't come back. Not that night or the next or the one after that.

But Dorothy never stops waiting.

I snap out of the memory, a small pang of sadness hitting my chest, the way it always does when I think of Nessa.

My view of her has changed in the five years since I've come to Ireland and made a new home and a new life here with Nicholas, but the grief of losing her will never leave. It only changes from day to day, the weight sometimes easier to bear than others. Grief is funny that way.

Both a variable and a constant.

But it's been easier to navigate ever since I forced myself to reflect internally. To recognize the flaws in myself that make it easier for others to hurt me. Turns out I love to put people on pedestals. Even when I know that doing so will make it so much worse when they inevitably fall.

My father pulled the wool over my eyes for years, manipulating my misplaced loyalty, but he wasn't wrong about everything, namely the part that Nessa played in damaging our name in the criminal underworld. I knew it even back then, but I didn't want to admit that the woman who was perfect to me wasn't perfect in everything she did. That she had flaws - cracks and jagged edges that sliced through people if they got too close. Dorothy was one of them, and while I'll never forgive her for killing Nessa, I understand what it's like to long for love and attention and feel anger when you don't get it the way you want.

It took a while for me to be able to admit that to myself.

Still glad she's dead though.

Truth is, nobody's perfect.

Not even me, although if you ask my husband, he'd be inclined to disagree.

My husband.

The words send a thrill through me, desire coursing through my middle and spreading through my core, heating between my legs with a territorial ownership that's both toxic and addicting.

It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, us getting married. And technically, we still aren't. For obvious reasons, trying to legally bind to each other is something we decided would be best to avoid, considering I'm on America's Most Wanted list.

But one day, after we sat on the rocky shores of Ireland and he finger fucked me while I let him read my own poetry for the first time, he dragged me into asmall run- down church and had us "married" right then and there.

And although he's not mine in the eyes of the law, Nicholas is mine in every way that matters. I own his heart, his mind, and his soul. And he owns mine right back.

About a year later, we found a small cottage in Northern Ireland, nestled in a forest with ten acres of land surrounding it, and we both fell in love. We've been here for three years now. Nicholas spends his time selling chopped wood to locals and creating beautiful one of a kind furniture that he sells around the world under his business name, the Tin Roof.

And me? I do whatever I please.

It's an odd feeling, having gone from spending the majority of my life pleasing other people to having the freedom and time to figure out who I truly am. Although it's a new discovery every day, because honestly, I'm not sure there's a definite answer to who or what a soul is. We're ever changing.

Right now?

I'm a writer. A dreamer.

A romantic.

I tend to my garden in the day, bringing in fresh vegetables to eat and fresh flowers to decorate the space, and I spend my nights curled up by the fire with a man who loves every single flawed part of me. And it doesn't get much better than that.

But there are times where an itch starts to scratch beneath the surface of my skin, one that thirsts for an outlet to the darkness that lives inside, and I don't shy away from that either.

Figuring out who you are means knowing every part and accepting every part, no matter what other people may think.

So when the burner phone I have rings and a distant cousin of mine - who I met three years ago by chance when I realized I had actual living family members in Ireland - gives me a name and an address, I slide up the zipper on my knee-high stilettos and I make my way to take care of people who are better off dead.

Anonymously, of course.

I have no interest in having my name affiliated with the Irish mob. Not anymore. And especially not here.

I'm perfectly content with living my quiet life.

The rain finally dies down and I finish my tea, stretching my body until my muscles pop and flex.

Nicholas is out in the woods still in his workshop, most likely waiting for the rain to pass to come back home, and I miss him, so I walk out our front door, down the new yellow brick path that leads to his shop nestled in the middle of the trees.

____________________

Nicholas

The smell of cedar is especially strong after the rain, and right now, it's filling the air.

Over the past five years, I've gotten so used to the scents of freshly cut wood and sawdust that coming back here to my workshop and crafting another piece feels like home.

Which it is now, I guess, as long as Evelina's around.

Lifting up my arms, I wipe a bead of sweat from my brow and drop the axe to my side, staring up at the overcast sky. I can't do too much with damp wood, but I had a few pieces I kept inside my workshop that needed to be split, so as soon as the last raindrop fell, I came outside to chop them.

If you had asked me six years ago, before I met Evelina, I never would have imagined living this life: working for myself and living in the middle of Ireland with a woman who fits me like the missing piece of a puzzle. But here I am, and I wouldn't change it for a goddamn thing.

A tree branch crunches behind me and I spin around, squinting my eyes to find the source of the noise.

Evelina traipses through the low hanging leaves, a goddess in her flowy black skirt and worn Vans. Her hair is still that beautiful natural brunette, and I swear to god every time I see her, my heart grows a little bit in size. Beats a little stronger. Hums a little deeper.

A smile blooms across my face as she trips over something on the ground and kicks it to the side, scowling.

I quirk a brow. "You should watch where you walk, pretty girl."

She snaps her head up and frowns. "Nobody asked, stalker."

Her chest rises and falls with her small puffs of air as she makes her way over to where I am, and I cross my arms over my chest, grinning at the way her cheeks are pinking up.

"Besides," she continues as she steps right up to me, craning her neck to meet my eyes. "I wanted to come see you."

I smirk, reaching out to brush a strand of hair off her face. "Damn, you're beautiful."

Her face softens and she rises up on her tiptoes, pressing her pillow- soft lips against mine in a chaste kiss. "Don't forget your sister gets here tomorrow."

My hands reach down and grip her hips, enjoying the way she feels under my touch. Leaning in, my nose skims against the expanse of her neck and I inhale, allowing my lips to brush against her throat. "I don't want to talk about my sister right now."

"Oh no?" she breathes, pushing her body into mine. "What would you rather talk about?"

Arousal strikes through me like a lightning bolt, the way it always does whenever Evelina's around.

"I'd rather you not be talking at all," I rasp, pressing my hips into her.

My cock jerks, filling rapidly. It's always half at attention and ready for her. Living with Evelina has me in a state of constant hardness. It's fucking torture sometimes.

"Have you been a good boy?" she whispers, skimming her lips against the underside of my jaw.

My abs tense as her long black nails scrape against my stomach, over the plaid flannel of my shirt, working their way down until she's cupping my erection through my pants. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning out loud.

She leans back slightly, removing her touch, and I'm about to protest but then she drops to her knees, right there on the forest floor. My left hand threads through the silky strands of her hair and tugs, bringing her face back just far enough so I can catch her gaze.

"I'm always a good boy."

Her eyes flash and then she has my fly unzipped and I'm in her mouth, her tongue ring doing incredible things against the ridge of my cock.

My other hand flies forward to cup the back of her head as she sucks me down.

"Fuck, pretty girl, you take it so well."

Moving my hips back, I drag my dick out, the feeling of her lips around it enough to send pleasure flooding through my veins. I thrust back in, and her tongue flicks against me while she sucks and my knees buckle the slightest bit from the sensation.

She hums, the vibration coursing down the length of my dick, heat coiling in the base of my spine.

But I'm not ready to let this end yet. I tug on the strands of her hair, yanking her off my cock with a loud pop of her lips.

"What's wrong, pup?" She grins. "Can't handle it?"

Her antagonizing does nothing but make me want to fuck the brat out of her more, and I slide my hands down from the back of her head along the sharp lines of her jaw. I bend down slightly, pulling her face to mine to leave a soft kiss on her lips before I continue to move until my fingers slip beneath her arms on either side of her.

She's light as hell and flies up easily into my arms as I lift her. I spin us around and lie her down on top of the large tree stump where I cut my pieces of wood.

She shrieks. "Fuck, Nick, it's wet!"

I smirk, my hands gliding up the insides of her thighs beneath her skirt, forcing her legs apart as I slip her panties to the side and drag my fingertips through her pussy lips.

"Oh, it's wet all right." I waggle my brows.

She scoffs. "You're ruining the moment."

My grin grows, a happy warmth coasting through my chest as I lean over her, bringing my body to rest on top of hers. "You love it."

Her hand lifts and strokes the side of my jaw, our gazes locked like magnets. "I love you."

The amusement in my chest dissipates, leaving behind something heavier. My chest brushes against hers and I rest my lips a centimeter away until we're breathing the same air, my cock lining up at her center.

I had planned to take my time, lick her sweet cunt until I was full off her taste, but suddenly, my need to be inside her, to be one with her, is overwhelming. I push my hips forward, the tip slipping inside.

She moans, her hand moving from my jaw to wrap around the back of my neck, her nails digging until they break skin.

"Whoever you are," I murmur against her mouth, "now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem. I whisper with my lips close to your ear. I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.”

Surging forward, I fill her to the hilt, the whispered words of Walt Whitman lingering in the space between us as the contentment of being inside her fills up my very being.

She moans again, her head flying back and smacking against the tree stump, and I immediately start a punishing rhythm.

My pretty girl has never really been one for the soft and sweet.

Her thighs spread wide around my hips, one of her legs wrapping around the back of my waist, her foot pressing against my ass and pulling me harder into her.

My hand slides down her side and grips the outside of her thigh tightly as I fuck her, pleasure spiraling through me until a sense of euphoria fills up every single pore of my body.

I was already on the edge from her sucking me off, and I know I won't last long now. It's too intense. She is too intense.

"Fuck, pretty girl, I need you to come."

Her eyes are glazed as they latch on to mine, and she wraps her other hand around my head until her fingers intertwine behind my neck. Then she starts moving her hips in tandem with mine, fucking herself on my cock as I thrust into her.

The sensations of her tight cunt gripping me as she works herself is more than I can take, and I lean down, melding our lips together, my teeth biting into her lip to try and hold myself back from coming.

Her muscles tighten beneath me, and she gasps into my mouth, her tongue swirling around mine and sucking, and then her pussy is spasming, and she's drenching my cock with her orgasm.

My eyes roll in the back of my head from how she's gripping me, but just before I come, she shoves me back, my dick sliding out of her pussy and bobbing in the cold air. And then she's in front of me again, on her knees, her cheeks rosy and her eyes wild.

I suck in a breath, taken aback by how fucking beautiful she looks on her knees and freshly fucked, and before I can utter a word, her tongue swipes out, and I'm frozen, watching as she licks herself off the length of me.

My balls tighten.

"Goddamn, Evelina."

Her lips wrap around me and she swallows me down whole, and the vision of it combined with the heat of her mouth is all I can take. My body clenches tight and I explode, shooting my cum down her throat.

My eyes are glued on her, watching the way her throat bobs in time with every spurt of my spasming dick, and the sight is so lewd and so Evelina that I almost collapse from the pleasure.

She does things like this, where she strips me of ev- erything and rebuilds me until I live and breathe just for her.

And I let her because as long as we're together, that's all I need. Giving her control when she needs it doesn't make me feel weak. It makes me feel like more of a man.

Her provider.

Her protector.

It's an intuitive type of relationship that I've never felt with anyone else.

She's my soul mate, my heart mate, and I would do anything for her.

Smiling wide, she wipes the corner of her lips and tucks me back inside my pants before hopping back up to a stand and brushing the debris off her skirt.

I reach out, grabbing her and pulling her flush against me, then lifting her up by the thighs until her legs wrap around my waist.

My nose nuzzles against hers. "You are the most beautiful kind of chaos, Evelina Westerly Woodsworth."

"And you're the best kind of calm," she whispers back. "Let's go home."

I nod but tighten my grip on her legs, deciding I'll carry her back.

The cottage in the woods may be our house, but there's no place in the world like home.

And Evelina is mine.

It's been a quick and prosperous five years since the death of Ali. After the dust settled on the chaos from the search of the lost lamp, Yasmin and I spent the rest of the year focusing on healing the wounds between us, the ones that were born from our unfortunate start.

But nothing about our relationship has ever been normal.

I offered her a real wedding, but it didn't hold her interest, not after her father wasn't there to walk her down the aisle, so instead I took her to a private island and we had a month-long honeymoon where we forgot the world entirely, creating our own cocoon of happiness.

And then when we returned, we started running Sultans. Together. She's a quick learner, and while she leaves most of the actual work to me, she's there behind the scenes, ushering us into a new era, one that keeps her family's legacy alive and keeps me as the CEO of one of the most powerful conglomerates in the world.

We did end up getting into the antiquity trade, and we've also finally been able to do business within the Russian diamond market, centering Sultans as the most powerful and prestigious diamond producer in the world.

My dick twitches at the memory of yesterday, when we stopped by the newest Sultans retail chain just outside Brooklyn after hours and she sucked me in a room full of sparkling jewels, making me hold her face to my groin while I shot my load down her dirty little throat.

"Mr. Faraci," Ciara's voice interrupts my day-dream and I clear my throat, my chair creaking as I lean forward over the conference table and tap my fingers on top of the papers splayed out in front of me, showing new designs in honor of Sultans' fiftieth year.

"This all looks decent. Send it to my wife and get her okay. You know she's the one who cares about the aesthetics more than me."

Standing up, I button my suit jacket and leave the room, heading back to my office and clearing the day's emails before going to pick up Yasmin for her event tonight.

She's becoming quite a household name in the photography world, although she insists she doesn't want to make it a career. Her work is frequently displayed in galleries around New York City, and tonight they're hosting an event in her honor. I'm sure once we're there, Riya will be stealing all her time. Ever since her best friend recovered from her gunshot wound, she's been around like a gnat, one that I've had to get used to because my attempts at keeping her away have been wildly unsuccessful. Over time, I've gotten used to her and have even tried to bring her on as a lawyer for Sultans, but she's turned me down on numerous occasions, saying she doesn't like to work for criminals and would rather spend her time building her own practice.

I open my briefcase for the first time today, slipping in a few important papers to take home, and pause, my stomach tightening and blood rushing to my groin when I see a pair of fire-engine-red lace panties lying on top.

I groan when I pick them up and bring them to my face, inhaling the sweet scent of Yasmin's pussy.

I'm going to fuck her until she can't breathe when I get home.

Rushing out of the office, I head to my car and make the normally forty- minute drive in twenty minutes. Parking in our garage, I head to her darkroom first, pressing my ear against the door and listening to see if she's there. I don't want to open it and mess anything up if she is, but it's silent, so I'm assuming she's in the house.

I find her in the kitchen, her juicy ass on display in tiny cotton shorts as she waltzes around the island making what looks like chocolate chip cookies. Isabella is curled up in the middle of the floor, and every so often, Yasmin reaches down and pets her.

She's humming to herself and dancing around to whatever song she's playing in her head, and I lean against the wall, slipping my hands into my pockets, my eyes feasting on the vision.

Goddamn, she's perfect.

And mine.

When she turns around, she sees me and she jumps, her hand flying to her chest with a yelp.

"God, Julian, why do you always do that?" she complains. "Such a Peeping Tom."

I smirk, straightening and stalking toward her, my hands coming out to grip her around the waist. She comes willingly, jumping up and wrapping her long legs around my hips, her hot cunt pressing against my already straining erection. I press a kiss to her lips as I walk with her into the family room, my tongue tangling with hers as I deposit her on the Persian rug in front of the fireplace.

Wasting no time, I rip her shorts off before she can protest and dive into her glistening pussy, her scent and her taste overwhelming me.

My cock grows, begging me to let it out and sink inside her, to let her walls suck on my shaft the way I'm sucking on her clit until I fill her up with my cum.

"You taste so sweet, gattina," I say between nips.

She attempts to sit up, but my arm flies out, pinning her down, my other free hand smacking across her swollen cunt, a sharp slap that I know will send her into the stratosphere.

Yasmin loves being spanked.

"Stop moving," I demand.

She jerks even harder against my hold, a devious flare coasting across her perfect face. Heat collects at the base of my spine when she disobeys me so openly.

I press my forearm more harshly against her middle until she's plastered to the floor and incapacitated entirely. "Does my little brat need to be taught a lesson?"

My fingers tease her hole, her wetness coating them as I slide inside, finger- fucking her slowly. Leaning back down, my tongue swipes out across her clit, swirling in a slow circle, enjoying the way her pussy walls clench every time I suck it in my mouth between licks. Her entire body tightens, and I know she's seconds away from exploding, so I pull back, using my hands to grip her hips tightly as I flip her around until she's on all fours.

"No," she complains.

"I want to feel you gripping my dick when you come, not my fingers," I reply, unbuckling my belt and dropping my pants. I stare at the way she's splayed open, her tight little asshole and dripping cunt on display for me as she rests on her elbows and knees.

My cock bobs free and I stroke it from the root to the tip, my sack tightening from the touch, already on edge from seeing my wife so vulnerable in front of me.

I reach out and run my fingers along her pussy, from the top of her slit down to behind her hole, drenching my hand in her arousal.

"Such a greedy whore, amore mio." Moving forward, I rest the tip of my throbbing dick at her entrance, teasing her as I slip it forward and run the length of my shaft along the outside of her cunt until I'm sliding against her clit.

Her body trembles and she pushes back against me, her ass slapping into my hips, which makes my cock jerk, precum leaking from my tip and mixing with her own wetness.

My hand slowly glides up her back, over the cotton of her oversize shirt, ghosting along her spine until I'm fisting her hair and dragging her body up until she's plastered against me. Her breathing is heavy and my shaft jerks as it rests between her thighs.

I pull back slightly and thrust forward, the feeling of my cock sliding against her, so close to where it belongs, making my muscles contract and sweat bead at my brow.

My fingers tighten in her strands and tug sharply, making a heavy breath escape her pouty lips, my other hand dragging down the front of her until I'm cupping her pussy.

"This cunt is mine," I state, my lips ghosting across the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

"Please , Julian."

"Have you been a good girl, baby?" I place a small kiss to her skin and move my cock back slightly until I'm poised at her entrance. "Only good girls get my dick."

"Yes," she breathes, her hips rotating against me.

"What a filthy little liar." My fingers tighten in her hair and I tug sharply, pressing my lips against the shell of her ear. "Good girls don't leave their panties in my briefcase where anyone can find them."

Her body trembles against me, and I move my hips forward, my cock splitting apart her lips and sinking inside the smallest bit.

My abs tighten.

"Is that why you're prancing around here in those little shorts with nothing underneath? To tease me until I can't think about anything except the way it would feel to be balls deep in your sweet little cunt?" I push forward again, my dick sinking into her another inch. "Tell me what you want, gattina."

She tries to push against me, but I tighten my hold on her body, keeping her in place.

"I want you to fuck me like I've been bad."

"Your wish is my command."

Releasing her hair, I throw her body forward, her elbows caught by the purple and gold fabric of the rug beneath us, and I'm on her quickly, deep inside her before she can blink, my cock spasming from the feel of her warmth encasing every hard inch of me.

I start a brutal and punishing rhythm, my hips slamming against her, watching the way her ass jiggles with every single thrust. My hand flies down and cracks across the meaty part of her cheek, and she cries out, fucking me back so well I'm already seeing stars.

This isn't going to last long. I'm too wound up from the day and too turned on from the feel of her perfect pussy massaging my length.

My palm moves until my fingers are sliding down the crack of her ass, rimming around her tight little hole.

"I'm going to fuck you here," I say, pressing the tip of my thumb past the tight ring of muscle. "Tonight when we get back from your photography event, I'm going to spread you open and force myself into this tight little space, fucking you up the ass until my cum leaks out of you."

Her walls contract around me.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you, little slut?"

My breaths are coming harsher as I thrust in and out of her while I tease her back entrance, and when I slip my thumb in entirely, her entire body seizes, locking up and forcing my balls to draw into my body. I lose control, cum surging through my shaft and shooting deep into her instantly. My vision goes black while I unload inside her, and she's vibrating on my dick, which only prolongs the pleasure until I feel like I might pass out.

I collapse on top of her, slipping out of both of her holes and pressing kisses to her neck, my lungs begging for air.

"I love you, Mrs. Faraci."

She hums, lying flat against the floor, both of us too satiated to move.

"I love you , husband."

Flipping her over until my body is pressed against the front of hers, I press a long kiss to her lips. "Tell me you're mine," I whisper, my heart squeezing tight in my chest.

Her eyes fill with so much love it hurts, and she reaches up her hand, running her fingertips along my face. "I'm yours, Julian Faraci. And you're mine." Another kiss to her lips.

"Forever?"I ask.

"Forever."

TEN YEARS WE'VE BEEN TOGETHER, AND CADE'S bouts of self- flagellation are now far and few between, but they still exist. Trauma doesn't just disappear, regardless of how much distance we gain.

Tonight, for example, he's been out doing... something. I don't ask many questions the same way he doesn't for me, but when I walk into the bedroom, he's home, sitting on the floor, cross-legged with a haunted look in his eyes.

"Oh, baby," I say, dropping the book in my hand and rushing over to him.

He'll call it his "monster" again, but I don't believe in monsters. Not the kind he thinks exist anyway. Still, I let him have his beliefs the same way he allows me mine, and I think that when it comes down to it, that's why we work so well together.

We keep each other from falling off the cliff's edge when there's nothing else holding us back.

Sometimes, I still have nightmares of Parker coming back and continuing his years of assault. When I wake up, it's to Cade shushing me and petting my hair, and he loves me soft and sweet, knowing that's what I need in the moment.

And other times, it's like it is right now, with that terrible woman from his past, Sister Agnes, whispering lies in his head. So I do what I've always done. I climb into his lap, and I wrap my arms and legs around him, squeezing until it's hard for him to even breathe.

My muscles ache the longer I hold on tight, but I don't let go. I just grip him close, and his hands paw at me like I'm the breath of air he's been begging for.

Like now that I'm here, he can lose himself in me instead of the memories.

"I love you," I whisper into his ear as he rocks us back and forth.

His fingers slip beneath the waist of my shorts and grip handfuls of my ass, pulling me farther into him.

It's not sexual, not really.

It's comfort.

Because that's what we are to each other.

We're each other's home.

I wait until his heartbeat calms and his breathing evens out, and then I do what I always do in these moments. I start kissing all his scars.

"When you hurt yourself, you hurt me."

"I know," he rasps, his muscles twitching while I slide off his lap and move to face his back, working my lips down his body. "I'm sorry."

"Shh. Don't apologize. Just let me take care of you. Let me take away the pain."

Our lovemaking on nights like tonight is rough and raw.

Painful. Violent. Extreme.

It's what Cade craves, so I give it to him, because I'll always give him whatever it is he needs.

I stand up, gliding my fingers down his arm until his hand links with mine and I pull him up too, walking us to the bed and laying him down. Slowly, I strip off his sleep pants, his thick cock bouncing in the air when it's freed. I love to see how turned on I make him, but again, nights like this aren't about sex.

They're about the escape.

I know what he needs, the same way he knows me. After ten years together, he breathes in, and I exhale. It's intrinsic.

There's no time to waste, no foreplay that we need. Not when he's vulnerable and fighting his own demons. I straddle his hips and sink down onto his thick shaft, gasping when he fills me up from the inside out. It's overwhelming, how perfectly we fit together.

His hands fly to my waist, gripping me so tightly I'm sure they'll leave a belt of purple fingerprints.

Marking me. Just the way I like.

I start a fast rhythm, slamming myself down on top of his cock, my nails digging into his chest until they cut crescent-shaped slices into his skin.

"If you need to hurt," I breathe out, "you come to me."

I grip his neck, wrapping my fingers around his throat and putting the weight of my body into it, making sure to use the method he taught me, avoiding his windpipe but giving him the rush of the sting, while I ride him until his dick starts to grow harder inside me.

His hips buck.

And when I lean down and bite into the side of his neck until I taste his blood flooding into my mouth, he comes, hard, filling me up and whispering his devotion in French.

Devotion to me.

Not to anyone else.

____________________

CADE BROUGHT me and Quinten to the new patisserie that just opened down the street from Dalia's Dancers, and now we're all sitting here - the three of us - eating chocolate pastries and giggling like children.

They're simple, these moments, but they're ones I don't take for granted.

I used to think I was destined to live life picking up the pieces that my mother left and somehow figuring out how to stitch them back together. Honestly, I thought I'd be drowning.

But now I'm here.

Funny how life can change in the blink of an eye.

I smile across the table at Quinten, who's slurping down his cold milk and staring at the chocolate chip cookie in front of him like it might bite him if he grabs it. Slowly, he reaches out and takes a bite, his green eyes sparkling while he chews.

"Good, mon petit?" Cade asks him.

Quinten rolls his eyes but nods. He constantly tells Cade he's too old to be called "little one" now, but I think Cade continues to do it just to get on his nerves.

Cade smirks, throwing his arm along the back of my chair, the corners of his lips lifting. There's a softness to his gaze that makes my heart warm, one that only exists when he's staring at me or Quinten.

I take a forkful of the white chocolate croissant that's in front of me and place it in my mouth, the delectable sugar melting on my tongue and making me moan in appreciation.

"Careful, mon trésor, or I'll do things that aren't appropriate for public," Cade whispers in my ear.

I reach out and smack him in the chest, but he just grins and winks, leaning back in his chair.

The little bell hanging over the front of the patisserie door rings, and a group of kids walk in, and Quinten freezes, his eyes flicking from where they are down to the table and then back.

"What's the problem, Quin?" I ask.

He shakes his head, grabbing the noise-canceling headphones from around his neck and putting them over his ears instead, his gaze constantly flickering to the door and then back.

My eyes follow where he looks, my hackles rising the way they always have with him. It's been years since we've dealt with bullies, but last year, Quin decided he wanted to finish out high school in a regular setting. At first, I was against the idea, but Cade talked me down, reminding me that it's Quinten's life and I can't always be there to protect him. He has to let experience shape him the same way it does for all of us.

So he went, and he loves it. I haven't heard a single thing about him being bullied, but it doesn't stop the terror that it's happening from keeping me up at night.

"Who's that?" Cade asks him, his hand slipping onto my thigh and squeezing tightly.

Like usual, he knows exactly what's going through my head, and he gives me the support I need.

"No one," Quinten murmurs. "Just some kids from school."

I'm two seconds away from having us leave, but then one of the girls lifts her head, her amber eyes catching Quinten's, and then she's on her way over before we can blink. Her intense red hair - obviously dyed - bounces against her smooth and golden sandy complexion, her face brightening as she smiles.

Every step she takes makes my heart pick up speed as I look between them.

Cade leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek. "Calm down, Amaya. Our boy has a crush. Clearly."

I blow out a disbelieving breath, but as I flick my gaze back and forth, I realize he might be right.

"Hey, Quin," the girl says, stopping in front of our table.

I smile wide, blowing out a relieved breath. She seems nice.

"Hi," he murmurs.

She grins and slips her hands in her back pockets, looking over to us. "Hey, you must be Quin's parents? I'm Mina."

I glance back to Quin and then her again. I was expecting French, but she speaks with an American accent.

"Close. Sister and brother- in- law. I'm Amaya and this is Cade."

Cade nods a hello but doesn't talk, and I glance over at Quinten, who's gazing up at her like she lights up the night sky.

Oh my god. He does have a crush.

Mina looks back at him, and she rocks on her heels, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. "Some of us were about to grab some snacks here and then head down to the lake for a bonfire. Do you... I mean, would you want to come?" Her eyes bounce back to me and Cade. "If that's okay, I mean."

Quinten looks over to me, delight as clear on his face as the nerves are, and I nod. "Whatever you want to do, dude. Just be back home by ten."

A smile breaks across his face and he bobs his head, standing up and walking away with Mina. She laughs and he grins, and I swear my heart is about to explode.

Sighing, I lean over, resting my head against Cade's shoulder.

"I love it here."

"I'm glad." He presses a kiss to the top of my head.

"I love you, Cade," I murmur, turning my head and peering up at him.

He dips his face down, pressing his lips to mine in a possessive kiss. "And I live for you, petite pécheresse. In all our lives."

"And how do you feel about that?"

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing as Gio tries to psychoanalyze Enzo from across the dining table in our new house.

Enzo groans, tugging on the roots of his hair. "Would you shut the fuck up?"

Gio shrugs and grins. "Just following orders from the boss." He points to me.

"Oh, no," I say, walking by and smacking him on the back of the head before I plop down in Enzo's lap. "You don't get to blame this on me. You trying to get me in trouble?"

"You wanted a therapist, and for obvious reasons, you can't just talk to any shrink out there... I'm just being the go - between guy because, honestly, you both could use some therapy, you know? Fucking weirdos out here torturing people as foreplay."

I beam over at him, and Enzo wraps his arms around my waist, bringing me more snuggly onto his lap and nuzzling my neck. "You smell so good, goddamn," he murmurs into my skin.

"Scotty!" Gio yells. "You didn't tell me their new house came with a show."

Scotty cackles from the open kitchen, where he's cleaning up the Sunday dinner he made earlier.

It's become a type of tradition, these family nights.

My heart fills with warmth as I look around and realize I have everything I've ever ached for right here. Who knew I'd wind up in New York with a bunch of mob guys at my beck and call, and my most trusted adviser, Bastien, back in Atlantic Cove, running my empire?

I miss him, though - Bastien, that is - and I wish he could be closer.

Enzo slides his hand up my stomach instead, teasing the underside of my breast in a way that has my cheeks flushing.

"Enzo," I admonish, but I wiggle on his lap, rubbing against him anyway. "Not in front of people, please be serious."

"They should get out, then," he complains, his grip on me tightening. "Because I'm about to fuck you right on this table."

Scotty waltzes into the room, grinning from ear to ear. "What's this about a show?"

I point my finger at him and Gio. "Leave. Both of you."

"Oh!" Gio exclaims. "That's the kind of love we get around here? I see how it is."

"It's because I love you," I admit. "Enzo may act like he doesn't care if you stay and watch, but we both know he'd kill you for seeing me that way."

"True," Enzo confirms, pressing soft kisses to the juncture between my shoulder and my neck.

Gio nods and stands. "You make some very valid points." He walks over to Scotty before clapping him on the shoulder and steering him toward the front door. "Come on, kid. Let's go find our own dimes."

I don't even hear them leave because, in the next second, Enzo has me off his lap and laid out on the dining table in front of him, my front pressed to the dark wood and my dress flipped up so that my ass is on display and my pussy is exposed for his viewing pleasure.

His mouth latches on to me immediately, causing a sharp breath of air to escape from my lungs. My arms fly out to try and stabilize myself, and my fingernails dig into the table, my body already soaring from how good Enzo's mouth feels.

I think he's obsessed with eating pussy.

And to be honest, I'm here for it. I appreciate the art of pleasuring a woman, and if he weren't so possessive over me, I'd introduce a woman into the bedroom and turn it into a competition of who can make her come the fastest. But he's too jealous, and to be honest, so am I.

The thought of him ever touching anyone but me sends me into a fiery rage that can't be tamed.

In fact, that thought, knowing he's mine and mine alone, makes me crazy with desire, and when his tongue moves in the way it does, and his finger slips into me and curls up, I'm already on the edge of oblivion and about to explode.

"Oh my god," I cry out, pressing my face harder against the table.

He stops suddenly, and the peak I was about to hit withers away. My body feels like it's on fire, though. Every single time he touches me, it's another electrical pulse that rages through my body and sets my nerve endings ablaze.

He's the only one who's ever done that to me.

"Don't move," he commands.

I sink into his voice, allowing myself to relax completely and let go of everything that I usually feel: the need for control and the sense of responsibility I have because everyone else defers to me in every aspect, especially now that I'm both the owner of the Kingston empire and Enzo Marino's wife.

Like he says, even though I can take care of myself, it doesn't mean I should have to.

And I think I really like being taken care of by my husband.

He's the first person who has ever shown me what it truly means to be loved unconditionally.

I gasp when he stands and slams into me from behind, his fingers digging into the meat of my hips and his sharp thrusts sending me up the table, my hands grappling for purchase. "Fuck, Enzo."

"That's right, baby - it's me who makes you feel like this. Goddamn, you take my cock so well."

Pleasure skitters through me at his approval, lighting me up like fireworks.

He's big - sometimes, I feel like he's almost too big - and at this angle, with these thrusts, it feels like I'm going to burst apart at the seams. It hurts so good, though.

Heat builds deep in my abdomen and spreads down my spine, collecting between my legs until the tension winds tighter and tighter. I'm going to either pass out or  explode from the pleasure, and when his free hand wraps around my body and fingers my clit, I detonate, my body pulsing in time with my heart as I come undone around him entirely.

Enzo's movements turn jerky as he reaches his peak, and I say what I know will make him lose control entirely: "Come inside me."

He collapses on top of me, biting into my neck as he groans in my ear and unloads.

I know it gets him off to talk about making me pregnant, but we've both agreed that we won't have kids in reality.

It's just not something I'm interested in.

We have too much trauma from both of our parents, and I don't want to have the responsibility of making sure I don't fuck another person up for the rest of their lives.

I was worried that would be a deal-breaker, but he said "happy wife, happy life," and that as long as he has me, he doesn't care about anything else.

"Fuck, I love you," he murmurs, pressing hot kisses along the length of my spine, his cock still inside me, twitching as we both come down from our high. "I'll never get tired of you."

Emotion overwhelms me, my chest expanding as it fills with a gooey warmth.

I never thought I'd have this type of love.

One that's unconditional and all - consuming.

My throat swells, and I clear it before moving until he slips out of me, twisting around until I'm flat on my back and staring up at his perfect face. Reaching up, I ghost my fingers along his cheeks. "Thanks for being mine, Lover Boy."

He grins down at me before leaning down and capturing my lips with his. "Thanks for letting me love you out loud, piccola sirena."

"For the rest of this life?" I question.

"And every other one too."