Chapter 34 War
Chapter thirty-four
War
Ihate when Broderick is right.
But fuck, Olivia does make the best peanut butter cookies.
And now they’re all mine.
Forever.
She’s mine.
No other man will ever taste these again. Not a single goddamn crumb.
I lift one to my mouth, savoring the warm, golden center like I just conquered a kingdom instead of a kitchen.
She’s curled on the couch beside me, ‘workday’ officially sacrificed at the altar of butter, sugar, and me being a jealous bastard. She chuckles, soft and unbothered, and curls deeper into my side.
“I make them for my brothers every holiday,” she says, nuzzling my shoulder. “I can’t exactly deny them, War.”
Damn it.
I want to say yes, fine, family exception.
But instead—
“They can have some of my stash.”
She twists toward me, blinking like I just declared war on the Department of Cookie Distribution.
“What?”
“You make a batch for me,” I clarify, biting into another cookie. “We can share from mine. But the cookies belong to me.”
Her brows pinch together, confusion written all over that gorgeous face. “Are you serious?”
Deadly.
I meet her gaze, unflinching.
“Yes.”
Because it’s not about the cookies.
It’s about claiming something no other man gets.
It’s about the way she sings off key when she bakes, the little dance she does in my kitchen, the way she presses the fork into the dough just so before sliding the tray in the oven.
It’s about her feeding me with her fingers and grinning when I groan like she just made me see God.
Those moments?
They’re mine.
And if it takes hoarding cookies like a lunatic to make sure every man on this earth knows it?
So be it.
Her laugh bubbles out, light and sweet, and it grates on me because she’s laughing at me.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, shaking her head as she curls closer, crumbs still on her fingers. “Cookies, War? Really?”
I grit my teeth.
She doesn’t get it.
It’s not about the damn cookies.
It’s about her.
The soft flush on her cheeks when she caught me staring at her while she mixed the dough like she’d just rewritten the laws of gravity.
Broderick had that.
Once.
And I’ll never fucking forgive it.
She tips her head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Okay, fine. What about your brothers? Can they have my cookies?”
My whole body goes still.
Wesley.
Wilder.
The thought of them biting into something she made with those soft, perfect hands makes my vision haze. My first instinct is the only one that ever lives in me: No. No one touches what’s mine.
I open my mouth, ready to snap it out, final, but then—fuck.
Maybe once.
Just once.
So they understand.
So they know.
So they taste exactly what they’ll never have again.
A sample.
A warning.
A boundary drawn in sugar and fire.
“Yes,” I bite out. “Once. And only once. So they understand what they’ll never touch again.”
Her laugh bursts out louder, bright and delighted, like I just told her the most romantic thing in the world.
It pisses me off and wrecks me at the same time.
She thinks it’s funny. I mean every word.
***
She’s sitting on my desk like a temptation I can’t touch.
Crossed legs. Tilted head. One brow arched like she’s already bored with me.
“This is ridiculous,” Olivia says, gesturing around the office. “You brought me in here just to sit on your desk like some executive paperweight?”
“Not a paperweight,” I murmur, finishing an email. “A prize.”
She snorts. “Even worse.”
My eyes cut to hers, sharp enough to make her spine straighten.
“Careful, Olivia.” My voice drops, stern, the kind of warning that settles in her bones. “You’re not here to mock me.”
Her lips part. A flush rises in her cheeks, quick and guilty, but her eyes still spark with defiance.
I let the moment stretch, my gaze steady until I see the shiver run through her, the awareness clicking back into place.
Fuck, I love that fire.
The way she pushes just enough to make me remind her who she belongs to.
The way she blushes when I do.
I ease back into my chair, deliberately calm.
“Give me a minute.”
I hit send, then turn to my secondary screen. The one I never use for business. Only her.
Three images are pulled up. High-res mockups from the jeweler I had on retainer.
She watches me, confused, until I pivot the monitor toward her.
“I have three designs in progress,” I say. “I didn’t want to wait, but I also didn’t want to get it wrong. So pick. Which do you prefer?”
Her expression softens, but something flickers behind it. A pause. A hesitation.
“War…”
That single word slices through me.
Not because it’s soft. But because I know what it might mean.
She’s going to say no.
She’s going to say she’s not ready, that this is too fast, that I’m too much.
I brace myself for the rejection like I’ve braced for boardroom betrayals and family knives.
But before she can finish—before she can say anything else, I cut her off.
“I’m marrying you.” My voice is low, even. Final. “But I have to ask first. So pick a style.”
Her shoulders relax. The tension bleeds from her spine like a held breath finally exhaled.
She leans forward. Looks.
And I look at her.
Her freckles catch the light now that she isn’t hiding them behind makeup anymore.
Her skin glows, clear and soft and perfect, because I made sure of it.
The conditioner I bought her makes her hair shine like glass in the sun.
She smells like warm vanilla and summer wind because I ordered another bottle of the perfume she loves before she even ran out.
She’s healthy now. Rested. Fed. Touched.
Loved.
Owned.
This is all I ever wanted.
To give her the version of herself she was never allowed to be.
She hums thoughtfully, pointing to the second image. “That one.”
It’s the ring with a cushion-cut center stone, thick claw prongs, and a hidden halo beneath the setting. The band is gold. No pave, no distractions. Bold. Timeless. Hers.
I study it, nod once. “Fitting.”
Her gaze lingers on the design, then flicks back to me. A flicker of hesitation crosses her face.
“One thing,” she says softly.
My chest tightens. “What?”
“When you propose… I don’t want a surprise. I hate surprises. I want to know it’s coming. I want to be ready for it.”
She means it. No teasing, no edge; just truth.
For a beat, I say nothing, already filing it away. She thinks she’s asking for a condition. What she’s really done is hand me the perfect solution. A way to give her everything she wants and still make it mine.
The best idea I’ve ever had starts forming, sharp and flawless, like the diamond she just chose.
“Done,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over her hip.
Her shoulders loosen, the tension easing out of her spine. She relaxes fully, trusting me.
Inside, I’m already smiling. She won’t see it until it’s too late.
I hook my hands around her waist and pull her off the desk, settling her onto my lap where she belongs. Her gasp cuts through me as her weight presses down, warm and perfect, anchoring me in a way nothing else ever has.
I kiss her like she just gave me something I never thought I’d have.
Because she did.
She gave me the future, right here, in a single choice. My future.
When I pull back, my forehead rests against hers, our breaths tangling.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
And for once, it doesn’t feel wrong to say it.
Not soft.
Not weak.
Just honest.
Because I’m grateful for her.
I always will be.
Step Five Complete