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I wasn’t saving anyone. I wasn’t bringing justice to wrongdoers.
I wasn’t unhappy, but I wasn’t thriving. I’ve just been existing. Looking for my passion. Something to inspire me.
My parents raised me to understand that there are consequences for our actions, repercussions we need to face when we do something wrong. And the men Hans has killed… Their wrongs are unforgivable. They earned their punishment.
Hans is their punishment.
And Hans is my passion.
Lying on our sides, facing each other, I feel a sense of rightness. Like this is where I belong.
When Hans told me the details about his past, about his family, it broke my heart.
I can’t fix it for him, no one can bring them back, but I can be here for him now.
“You’re a good man,” I say again.
Hans’s throat works on a swallow, then he grips my shoulders and forces me to roll away from him.
I don’t fight it, because I can feel him move with me. And as soon as I’m facing the other way, he presses his body to mine. His front to my back.
“My Butterfly.” Hans presses a kiss to the back of my head. “My girl.” He circles his arm around my waist. “My light.”
His words seep into my heart.
“My Grizzly Bear.” I hug his arm. “My man.” I melt into his body. “My stalker.” I smile.
Sleep finally starts to take me, the weight of the day pulling me under, when Hans whispers two more words.
“My love.”
CHAPTER81
Hans
“I’m tapping out,”Cassandra groans, leaning back in the sole chair.
We slept past noon and ordered another round of room service. Only this time we ate at the desk in the corner instead of on the bed. And I made Cassandra use the chair while I just leaned against the wall.
If I hadn’t been so busy hating the employee who checked us in last night, I would’ve asked for a suite.
Cassandra was already interested in me when she thought all I could afford was one cheap, run-down house. So I know I don’t need to impress her with fancy hotel rooms. But it would’ve been nice to give her something special after yesterday.
I eye what’s left of her club sandwich. “You’re not gonna finish it?”
She presses her hands to her stomach. “It was huge. I’m too full.”
It was huge. I’m too full.
My blood simmers, and I drag my gaze from her plate up to her face. “That’s one, Butterfly.”
Her mouth drops in an indignant expression. “What? I didn’t even do—” Then her lips press together, and she rolls her eyes. “I was talking about a sandwich.”
“Doesn’t matter. You still said it.”
She pretends to be annoyed, but I can see the smile she’s fighting. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Probably.” I lift a shoulder. “Can I finish it?” I point to her leftovers.
