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Anger flickers fiercely through me. Gemma's needs never mattered.
I tip her chin up to meet my gaze. “You're my only priority and your needs matter to me. If you want out of this engagement, I'll make it happen.” My voice drops to a fierce whisper. “Just say the word.”
Something dangerous flickers in her eyes. I recognize that look—it's the same unflinching resolve I've seen in battle-hardened soldiers. This is the real Gemma, steel glinting beneath the polish and poise.
But as quickly as it surfaced, the moment is gone. Gemma's shoulders slump in defeat.
“I can't let you do that, Dylan.” She touches my cheek with infinite tenderness.
Tilting her chin up, I graze my lips over hers. But feeling those lips on mine kicks my heart rate into high gear. Gemma makes this little sound of longing and grabs my hair to pull me in deeper.
Things heat up fast, our tongues tangling as need takes over. I get lost in the sweet velvet of her mouth, her taste. We're wrapped tight, both gasping for air when we come up.
She clings to me like I'm her lifeline. My arms remain locked, holding her close, memorizing her warmth, her scent.
“I'll respect whatever choice you make,” I murmur into her hair. “But I'm not giving up.”
Her breath is warm on my neck. “You're the first thing in my life that feels real, Dylan. No matter what happens, I'll always be grateful for that.”
Footsteps sound outside the dressing room, followed by a tentative knock. “Miss Caldwell? Shall I have the stylist start alterations?”
Gemma pulls back, hurriedly swiping the tears from her cheeks. The mask of poise slips back into place as she squares her shoulders. “No alterations needed. I've decided on a different dress.”
Gemma turns to me, her expression softening. “Wait for me?”
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. I failed to free Gemma today, but I'm not giving up. I don't know what the future holds but I know something for certain.
Gemma Caldwell is not going through with this wedding.
Chapter7
Dylan
Gemma's laughterechoes through the marble foyer as we enter her penthouse apartment, the sound at odds with the day's emotional toll. She glances at me over her shoulder, blue eyes sparkling.
“I can't believe I made you blush at the bridal shop. Who knew big, tough ex-military guys could get flustered?”
I force a smile, trying to match her lighthearted tone. My mind is still back at the boutique, holding Gemma as she broke down. Seeing her so distraught tore at my heart.
She heads to the kitchen, calling, “Want something to drink?”
“Water, thanks,” I reply automatically, my senses on high alert.
I walk behind, surveying the open-concept living space for any signs of intrusion. Everything appears untouched, but I won't relax my vigilance. Not with a dangerous stalker fixated on Gemma.
“The housekeeper dropped off a delivery from the farmer's market,” Gemma calls over her shoulder as she heads to the kitchen.
Gemma goes straight for the fridge, rifling through the produce. “Fresh peaches, look! And oooh, heirloom tomatoes.”
Her delight is innocent, oblivious. She seems perfectly at ease, relaxed in the familiar safety of home.
Before stationing myself near the kitchen, I check whether the doors are locked and windows secured.
The popping of the cork punctuates her playful humming as she reaches again for the fridge.
“Don't be such a stoic. I'm having wine. You should join me.”
A loud smack is followed by a sharp gasp, shattering the calm. On the floor lies the broken remains of a pasta container, its contents strewn across gleaming hardwood.
