"What do you mean?"
"If I'm charged with murder and you're just wanted for questioning, they'll use that disparity. A good lawyer could argue you were coerced, that you're a victim not an accomplice."
"But I'm not a victim."
"I know that. You know that. But legally—" He pauses. "We should get married."
"What?"
"Spousal privilege. You can't be compelled to testify against me. And if something happens, you and the baby are protected. My accounts, my properties, everything becomes yours."
"Nothing's going to happen to you."
"Harrison's desperate. Desperate men do desperate things." He cups my face. "I need to know you're protected. Both of you."
I look at this man—this dangerous, possessive, infuriating man who's turned my life upside down in a few weeks. Who gave me a baby. Who marks me with bites and calls me his, like he has any right.
Who looks at me like I'm his entire world.
"This is crazy," I whisper.
"This is strategic."
"My mother will be thrilled."
"See? Everyone wins."
I touch the bite mark on my neck again, feeling the raised edges. This man has claimed me in every way possible—physically, emotionally, and now he wants to do it legally.
The independent part of me wants to refuse, to insist I don't need his protection or his name. But the practical part knows he's right about spousal privilege. And the traitorous part of me that's been growing stronger every day actually wants to be his wife.
When did I become this woman? The kind who considers marrying a criminal after six days?
But looking at him now, seeing the vulnerability beneath his controlling nature, the fear of losing me that drives his overprotectiveness, I realize I've already chosen.
I chose him the moment I trusted him over my own department. Chose him when I let him claim me last night. Choose him every time I wake up in his arms and feel safer than I ever did with a badge and gun.
"Okay," I say finally. "But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"And my mother gets to plan a proper wedding reception when this is over."
He grins. "She'll probably want it in a church."
"Catholic church. With a mariachi band."
"I can work with that."
"You sure you want to marry into this chaos?"
"Little wolf," he says, pulling me back against his chest, "I'd marry you in a federal prison if that's what it took to make you mine legally."
"You're already claiming I'm yours to anyone who'll listen."
"Now I'll have paperwork to prove it."
I should be terrified. Should be second-guessing everything. Instead, I'm thinking about how our children will have his eyes and my stubbornness, his protection and my independence.
