Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
We ate dinner with his family on the outdoor patio, worked out in the home gym, and took full advantage of the pool.
And now it’s ending.
My heart rate is all over the place because I don’t know what life looks like once we leave this house, this strange, precious bubble we hid ourselves in.
I’m terrified I’m about to lose it.
I’m equally terrified I’m not.
Under all the clashing noise, something louder pushes against my breastbone. A pressure. A truth. Three words I’ve been carrying like held breath. They’ve been sitting in my lungs all week, swelling with every glance, touch, and easy grin Wolf tosses my way.
I’ve told other men something before. Variations. Performances. Nothing that came with this intensity, this clarity, this life-altering certainty.
This is absolute.
Wolfson Strakh isn’t a gentle drift or a stumbling detour. He’s a roar in my chest. A pounding beneath my skin. Losing him would be losing an organ. He’s vital. Integral. An essential part that doesn’t grow back.
I can’t lose him.
With a steadying breath, I return to the bedroom in a long T-shirt and undies, my hair damp around my shoulders.
He’s sprawled across the bed, head tipped back, eyes closed. His arms lay out to the sides like he’s offering himself up to a god who never deserved him.
It looks like prayer.
A heathen’s prayer.
“You falling asleep on me?” I ask.
“Never,” he says without lifting his lids.
Then he opens them, and that arctic blue gaze knocks the air out of me.
He looks lighter. Not healed. Not even close. But more distributed. Like the heaviness he carries found a way to spread out instead of crushing him all in one spot.
I climb onto the bed beside him, and he rolls, facing me, his hands tugging my hips until we’re pressed together.
“What’s going on?” He narrows his eyes as if trying to see straight into the center of me.
My throat thickens.
This is it.
No running. No hedging. No half-truths.
“I love you.” The words leave me in a rush, almost violent in their urgency.
His breath stops. His lashes flutter. Shock freezes his entire body for one second, two seconds, three… Then his face cracks with pure, blinding happiness.
He tries to hide it. Of course, he tries. He pushes his tongue into his cheek, nostrils pulsing, fighting a grin, fighting the wide-eyed innocence threatening to spill out.
But he can’t mask it. Not from me.
His fingers sweep up my arm and tremble against my cheek as he brings his mouth to mine, eyes blazing with reciprocated love.
“Of course, you do,” he says hotly, hoarsely. “You never stood a chance.”
He leans his forehead against mine, the grin winning, boyish and smug. Somehow, that arrogance makes my heart bang harder.
He’s still smiling when he rolls onto his back and releases a satisfied breath. I follow the movement, propping myself on an elbow beside him.
“We leave the island tomorrow.” I run a finger down his chest, tracing the longest scar beneath his ribs. “Back to everything.”
His nose wrinkles. “We could stay. Build a treehouse. Start our cult. Only rule is nudity after breakfast. And before.”
“Be serious.”
“I am serious.” He turns his head toward me. “I don’t want to go back to separate schedules and walking around Sitka pretending we don’t have an entourage of bodyguards.”
“We can’t stay here forever.”
“Why not?”
I laugh under my breath, because, of course, Wolfson Strakh asks why not to reality like it’s negotiable.
Reality won’t wait for us. Not while Jag is hacking systems, controlling cameras, and making enemies with every criminal organization under the sun. As expected, Monty’s private investigator has uncovered fuck all on my stepbrother and his associates.
“Did you tell Taaq you’re returning tomorrow?” Wolf shifts closer, sliding a hand under my T-shirt, warm palm settling against my stomach.
“Yeah. I have a full roster waiting for me. Brake jobs, filter changes, oil leaks… Back to minimum wage and greasy hands.”
He studies me for a long beat. Too long. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?”
“I like working on cars.”
“I know.” He nods slowly. “You used to have your own garage. Specialized in vintage engines. You like working on those. The ones you choose. But that shop in Sitka? It’s not the same thing.”
I look away, because he’s right. I love vintage engines, the old-timey mechanics, the well-built parts, the delicious history. But being elbow-deep in strangers’ junkers while a shop owner hovers over my shoulder with a clipboard? That isn’t passion. It’s survival.
“Stubborn little dove.” His fingers skim over my pierced nipple. “You don’t have to survive now.”
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“You bet your pretty ass it is. Because I can fix this part.” He sits up a little, resting his cheek against his shoulder as he looks at me. “What are you trying to prove by staying in that job?”
“I’m not trying to prove anything.”
“Then why does it feel like you’re punishing yourself?”