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More than willing, I placed the heavyset emerald and diamond necklace—a piece that made me wonder if Vasov had raided some kind of bank vault because this shit screamed Romanov dynasty—at her throat. It was very awkward, but with some heavy breathing and fumbling because, shit, we both wanted to rip into each other, I managed to get it on her.
When I did?
It confirmed what I already knew.
She was a fucking queen.
Myfucking queen.
Unable to stop myself, I reached for her hand, the one with the thick scar on her palm, and pressed mine to it. She sighed, like that grounded her, and fuck if I didn’t feel the same way.
“Need you,” she whispered.
And I needed her too.
I propped one elbow to the side of her head as I raised our connected hands to the pillow, pinning her in place. Then I dropped my mouth to hers and connected us in a kiss that was like wildfire. It tore through our bones, ripped us apart, even as it merged us together again.
When my phone rang, Declan’s ring tone buzzing to life in the kitschy bedroom, I muttered, “I preferred it when he was in the hospital.”
She laughed, nipped my bottom lip, then muttered, “Ignore it,” as she surged upright, our hands still united so she was on top, and showed me her appreciation for her gifts.
I was a made man. I was a sniper. But through all the blood I shed, through all the violence I wreaked in our war torn city, I was so much more than either of those things.
I was her man.
Hers.
And more importantly?
She was mine.
Forever.
