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“They’re family,” he said as if it were as simple as that. “Einstein made sure we couldn’t be found, no matter what was run on us. But that couldn’t stop people from recognizing us from the news—not that the government publicly admitted they lost us. But our pictures had been out there for over a month, and we were on every list imaginable, so we laid low for the first couple of years. The only personal things we kept were our first names.”
I nodded slowly, my soul aching as I realized more and more how Diggs had shown me from the beginning how much I meant to him. Because he’d had to change his last name due to something catastrophic that had been pinned on him and his brother. He’d been forced to erase who he was and had refused to feed me the lie he’d been living for fourteen years.
“I can’t remember your name,” I said regretfully. “I can barely remember my parents talking about it over dinner every night.”
“It doesn’t exist to me anymore,” he said firmly as if I hadn’t already understood the gravity of his and Maverick’s situation. “My old life, my parents, none of that exists.”
“You aren’t going to tell me,” I said in understanding.
He lifted a hand to his chest before letting it fall between his legs again, something like frustration leaving him when he said, “I can’t.”
And I knew in the way his voice twisted around the words that it wasn’t because he thought I would betray him—that I would out him and Maverick. This was the kind of burden that he’d locked deep long ago, prepared to take it to his grave.
“Then tell me the lie.”
Diggs studied me for a while before answering, “Pierson.”
I nodded as I took in the way his features twitched, showing his obvious dislike for the name. “Okay, Evan Pierson,” I whispered. “Are you gonna make that face if I take that last name?”
The way his irritation shifted to primal need in an instant had heat spiking in my veins and unfurling low in my belly.
“Because when I marry you, I intend on doing exactly that.”
“I’m gonna need you to repeat that.” The demand rumbled from him and had a soft smile creeping at the edges of my mouth when he reached for me. Gently curling an arm around me and pulling me against him until I was straddling his lap as he sank back against the couch.
“Which part?”
“Think you know.”
I fought the smile now threatening to break free and wove my fingers into his hair, tipping my head close to his when I echoed, “When I marry you...”
“When?” he asked, voice a hoarse confirmation.
“When,” I said and released a trembling breath when his hands skated up my bare stomach, taking the shirt I was wearing as he went. “This room is full of people.”
“No one goes near blocked-off areas,” he assured me.
I was sure I should’ve felt some sort of insecurity, knowing the rest of his family would have their assumptions of what was happening in this small space. But Diggs had successfully removed the shirt and dropped it beside us. His hands were on my breasts, testing their weight and teasing my nipples as he leaned forward to pull one of the hardened buds into his mouth. And I no longer cared about anything other than that moment and him.
Releasing me with a torturous scrape of his teeth along my nipple, he lifted his head to mine. His mouth hovering just over my own as he whispered, “Set the pace, Willow.” The words sending a heady rush down my spine.
Or maybe that was the kiss that immediately followed.
Soft and slow. Tender and full of adoration. But the hand that was slowly curling around my neck and the way he swiftly bit down on my bottom lip, hard enough to draw blood, had my pulse racing and my body aching for his.
But I knew in the way he kept us there, never taking it any further, that set the pace had meant more than just our relationship—our future. It meant right then. He was taking cues from me to see what I could handle after everything we’d just been through.
But I could handle him. I could handle this.
Loosely curling my hand around the one on my neck, I gently trailed my fingers over his wrist and up his arm before breaking the kiss and shifting off his lap. Pushing from the couch, I held his carnal stare as I reached for my shorts.
“You’re overdressed,” I whispered as I slid the material down my legs, my movements halting when he grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled it over his head.
I wasn’t sure I would ever get used to the sight of this man. His obvious strength. The control in each movement. The large symbol marking who he was on one side of his torso and the devastating story decorating his other side and back that he bore like shame.
He was beautiful.
And sitting there then, with only a pair of sweatpants on, heated stare devouring me, it was all I could do to continue undressing. Because he was just as I’d suspected from that very first night.
