Page 23 of Married to the Enemy

“Let’s go inside and find bedrooms for everyone, okay?” he suggested.

Chapter 13

It was late. The kind of late when the house bones creaked , the old timbers sighing with satisfaction after a long day. Upstairs, silence reigned. Evangeline was asleep in her room, finally in her own bed again after years of sterile nursing home walls. Freddy was down the hall, curled beneath thick blankets, his wheelchair parked beside the nightstand like a loyal dog.

Mia padded barefoot into the kitchen, hugging herself as she looked around. The house smelled faintly of fried chicken, lemon furniture polish, and spring air from the windows she and her nonna had insisted on opening earlier.

She stood in the middle of the room, letting the silence wash over her.

Married. She was married.

She’d saved her grandmother from a corrupt system that wanted to warehouse her like some disposable relic. She’d faced her father—in open court, no less—and stared him down. And she’d all but adopted a boy with eyes far too old for his ten years.

Her life had turned upside down in the span of hours. Yet… her chest felt lighter than it had in years. The silence of the house wasn’t empty anymore. The house breathed again, alive with people and possibility.

It felt good.

It felt right.

She pressed her palms to the cool countertop, closing her eyes for a moment, savoring the sensation of rightness.

Then the soft sound of footsteps behind her made her eyes snap open.

She turned and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw him.

Raffe stood in the doorway, big and broad, his shoulders nearly filling the carved arch. He looked around the kitchen, scanning details like he was cataloguing the place—ever watchful, ever assessing. The overhead light was dim, throwing half his face into shadow, which only made him look more dangerous. More mysterious.

Her heart thudded, and her mind skittered in a hundred directions.

No. Two directions, actually.

One: what exactly did this man do for a living? Because he clearly wasn’t unemployed, and he sure as hell wasn’t the homeless guy she’d assumed he was when she’d bargained for his hand.

Two: what would it feel like to be properly kissed by him?

Her arms crossed defensively over her chest. She knew she looked like a mess—leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, hair piled in a lopsided bun, face scrubbed clean of makeup. She’d been running on adrenaline all day and now she was down to fumes. But after the chaos of today—marriage, guardianship, adoption, survival—she refused to apologize for messy hair or bare feet.

And then his gaze dropped briefly. Her toes curled against the tile when his eyes lingered on them. The red polish she’d put on days ago suddenly felt indecent under the kitchen light, wicked even. Silly. But with him looking, it was as though the polish glowed.

Maybe it was exhaustion, maybe it was the dim light, maybe it was just him—but her mind spun right back to that kiss. That quick brush of lips that had felt too much like a promise. Too brief. Too potent.

And now, standing here with him, seeing the tall lines of his lean, muscular body outlined against the shadows, she was faced with the truth: he wasn’t the homeless man she’d paid to marry her. He was something else entirely. Dangerous. Strong. Impossibly appealing.

“What do you do?” he asked at last, his voice low and even.

Mia froze. She couldn’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

It wasn’t as if her work was a secret—she took photographs, sold them through agencies, licensed them worldwide. Pictures of markets, faces, animals, landscapes, whatever caught her eye. She’d built a quiet mini-empire one photo at a time, making a living from behind her camera lens. And she loved it—the freedom of it. The way it gave her a way to vanish into the world, to live as a ghost.

Her camera had saved her life. It had freed her from her father’s grasp. Her skill behind it had given her a ticket out, a reason to travel, to become a digital nomad. To stay ahead of the men her father would have bartered her to in exchange for their loyalty.

But explaining any of that to this man, this stranger with eyes like winter and hands strong enough to make her feel both safe and unsettled? No. Not tonight.

“I make ends meet,” she said finally, deliberately vague. Her gaze lifted, locking with his. “And you?”

The question hung in the air between them, daring him to answer.

And Raffe, heaven help her, looked even more appealing in the silence than when he spoke.