Chapter 113
REGGIE
Three Weeks Later…
Life at home is chaos.
Decadence is locked down tighter than a vault. The only ones stepping through those doors are couriers with arms or intel and the occasional poor bastard Drago drags in for his next interrogation.
War is coming.
You can feel it in the air. The tension. The waiting. The calm before the inevitable storm.
But in the middle of it all, there’s her.
Our calm. Our reason for every goddamn thing.
She deserves something beautiful. So we made sure to give her that.
“Okay, I already hate this,” Bella mutters, clinging to my arm as we lead her down the runway. She’s blindfolded and absolutely fuming.
Turns out, surprises aren’t her thing. But I’m sticking with it. The reward will be worth it.
Rowan’s trying to hide his grin but failing miserably. “You said you trusted us.”
“I said I tolerate you when you’re not trying to make me walk into traffic.”
I bite back a laugh. “You’re doing great, Princess. Just a few more steps.”
She stumbles and swats me in the chest.
“Both of you are on thin fuckin’ ice,” she growls.
There’s wind on her face. Jet engines hum softly nearby, and that’s when she stops dead. “Wait… is that an airport?”
“Nope,” I lie smoothly.
Rowan chimes in, “Could be a cornfield.”
“I swear to God, if this is skydiving, I’m stabbing both of you midair.”
That’s our girl. Fierce, unpredictable, and completely ours.
“Relax, baby,” I say, guiding her one more step forward. “We’re here. But before I take the blindfold off, promise not to cry.”
She gasps. “You got me a puppy?”
Rowan mutters under his breath, “Should’ve gone with the puppy.”
“Shut it,” I warn him, untying the blindfold.
The silk slips free, and her lashes flutter as her eyes adjust to the lights. Then she gasps.
“Holy shit,” she whispers.
The jet gleams on the tarmac, sleek and perfect, our initials painted near the nose in a bright pink, R, B, R.
“For you,” I say quietly.
Her eyes fill with tears, her mouth parting in disbelief. “You two are insane. You brought me a jet?”
“Correction,” Rowan says, sliding his arm around her waist. “We’re insane about you.”
She groans. “That was disgustingly cheesy.”
“Yeah,” I grin. “But it worked.”
“Where are we going?”
“Paris.”
Her lips part in shock. “Actual Paris not Vegas Paris?”
“Actual Eiffel Tower, croissants, and too much wine Paris,” Rowan adds.
The sound that comes out of her is half squeal, half laugh, and it might just be the best music I’ve ever heard. She throws her arms around us both.
“You’re both impossible.”
“And irresistible,” Rowan says with a wink.
“Don’t push it, rockstar.”
She kisses us both on the cheek, letting us guide her up the jet steps.
By the time we’re in the air, she’s curled between us on the cream leather seats, champagne in hand, smiling at the stars.
For the first time in weeks, there’s no war, no threat, no blood. Just her laughter echoing in the cabin and the quiet hum of peace.
Walking into our suite in Paris feels like a dream.
“This place is so fucking cool,” Bella whispers, forehead pressed to the glass, eyes wide as she stares at the Eiffel Tower glowing against the skyline.
“Only the best for you,” Rowan murmurs, pulling her close and kissing the soft spot beneath her ear.
“We’ve got so much sightseeing to do.”
I clear my throat, stepping up behind them. “We do. But that’s for tomorrow. Tonight, we’ve got one more surprise.”
Rowan smirks and lets her go, motioning me forward. I take her hand, her fingers cold but soft against mine, and lead her through the suite.
The door opens to the balcony, and the scent of roses hits her first—sweet, heavy, intoxicating. The space is small, but every inch is covered in pink petals, candles flickering in the warm air.
A heart-shaped arch draped in roses frames the skyline, and under it sits a table set for two. A letter rests on top beside a single flute of champagne.
Bella stops dead, her voice catching in her throat. “Reggie… what is this?”
“Go get the letter, baby.”
I give her a light tap on the ass, just enough to make her glare at me, and then she laughs.
She walks barefoot toward the table, Paris glowing behind her, the hem of her black dress brushing the floor, and I swear to God, if heaven looks anything like this, I’ll gladly burn through hell to earn it.