Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128290 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Those Brayshaws got through my walls. Me. The goddamned king of defenses.
The only reason I didn’t obliterate that entire family on the spot is because they dared to do what they did in the first place. That is no small decision. It’s one they were willing to put their lives at risk for. I don’t know for certain why I let them live today. The only thing I can come up with is some subconscious thought that it would hurt my wife if I hadn’t. Because of her sister’s relationship, maybe. I don’t know, but there’s a rage building up inside me I need to unleash.
It was weak to let them live.
I press a soft kiss to my bride’s fingertips, gently easing her hand right back where she had it, over her softly beating heart. She sighs, curling her feet up under the blanket, so I pull them higher, covering her completely.
Weak, but right.
My wife is strong, stronger than I expected, and I expected a lot. In my mind, she was perfection when I knew nothing but her face, yet she surpasses my expectations every damn day.
Some men fear what a woman’s touch will do to them, but not me.
There is no doubt in my mind that any weakness that might wash over me, her strength will make up for in spades.
She couldn’t be a Greyson girl, and while it used to make me murderous to know she was wrongly written off as not good enough, now it does the opposite, because I couldn’t agree more.
She couldn’t be a Greyson girl. Greyson girls are equal. A unit of four, well, three currently, with an unbreakable, unshakable bond. That’s fantastic, but that’s not my bride.
She’s not meant to be one in a pack of princesses.
No, she was meant to be a queen of her own castle.
And that’s exactly what she is.
With a heavy inhale I stand, eyes tracing every inch of my wife’s flawless face.
There is someone in our mix these people are after, and I would bet my life it isn’t Philip fucking Mitchell.
But I would bet hers that I will be the one to find him.
Whoever the fuck he is.
Chapter
Twenty-Eight
Boston
Queen Fikile.
I smile, running the pad of my thumb over the clear adhesive protecting the art Mino decorated my skin with. And it is art, a soft, elegant script with the small tip of a tiara curving along the Q. How he managed to do this by hand…with mine moving all around as I’m sure it was, I don’t know. Or maybe I was stiller than I realize.
Don’t see how I could have been, with how they toyed with me.
I shift in the sheets, intentionally searching for the reminder of the delicious ache between my legs, that good kind of sore I didn’t know I wanted.
He marked me. My husband staked a permanent claim. His name is marred into my flesh for life now.
He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t plan for me to be his last and final wife, right?
Katana was just a matter of honor of a man who was raised with none, yet somehow developed it to the upmost extent. He chose to make her his wife to save her life.
But he is choosing me for life.
Right?
I look to the ceiling. Then again, no one knows we’ve made it this far; no one outside of the people who could bury the knowledge without a care to anyone. His people.
My people?
I sigh, tossing off the covers and stretching as I climb from the bed, moving straight for my little espresso machine. My smile blooms at the small warmer, the little dispenser on top brimming with freshly made caramel. Pressing the cappuccino button, I turn to face the window, staring out at the lake a moment.
My coffee is complete, whipped cream poured in under a minute, so I pick up my discarded book and hit the button on the screen of the left wall, a sense of belonging washing over me as the glass disappears, allowing me to step out onto the balcony. I love this room. This house and this view.
I definitely more than like my husband…
My feet freeze on the heated flooring when I spot a familiar item sitting on top of the patio table.
A single black rose.
My heart beats a little harder, a warmth flooding through me at the sight and all but running over, lifting it to my nose. Once again, it’s covered in Enzo’s scent and I take a moment to breathe it in, letting it overwhelm my senses until my lungs can’t hold any more.
I set my book and mug down, planting my ass in the chair and tip the rose upside down, a small charm falling into my palm.
A low laugh leaves me as I draw it closer, running my fingers along the tiny, diamond- encrusted handcuffs. A smirk pulls at my lips, and I sit back, looking up at nothing and picturing moments from yesterday. Including when he woke me in the middle of the night, sliding into me from behind and fucking me to the rhythm of summer waves.