Chapter 42 TWENTY-EIGHT MINUTES
The early dawn bathes Lana in a soft blue light.
And I do what I do best.
Watch her.
But this time, instead of sitting in a chair next to her bed, or observing through monitors, I’m beside her, close enough to feel her warmth, inhale her sweet roses, and count the soft flutters of her breaths.
The useless muscle behind my sternum kicks and jolts, mocking me with a truth my mind has known for years.
“I love you, Lana,” I whisper, so softly she can’t hear me.
For so long, I called it obsession, delusion, hatred—anything but what it was. I told myself that hating her made it acceptable to stay by her side, even though she led the killers to our door.
But I can’t lie to myself anymore.
I love her.
I’d kill for her.
I’d burn for her.
I’d die for her.
She lets out a happy moan and faces me, a curl of silky dark hair draping over her soft tits.
My groin throbs as heat surges, my heart hammering harder in my rib cage.
My phone buzzes from the timer I set.
Twenty-eight minutes.
Then thirty. Thirty-five. Forty.
I ignore the reminders and trace her cheek instead, my lips hitching up slightly when she smiles in her sleep.
Beautiful dreams, I hope. Perhaps one of the past of us goofing off in the backyard. I had no money to my name, but we were happy. Back then, I wondered what the poor Kian could give to the rich Anderson princess.
Now, I wonder what the brutal king of the underworld—his hands darkened with blood—could give to the goddess who deserves to live earth-side, with sunlight warming her skin and flowers blooming around her.
She deserves someone who can love her with his all. Someone without enemies waiting to kill him. Someone who puts her on a pedestal and worships her.
Kids. A cat or two. A beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. A man who works a boring nine-to-five or spends his time running large corporations.
The simple life. The safe life.
My phone buzzes again, and this time, I feel a pain I haven’t felt in a long time—a visceral stab to my newly beating heart.
I stare at my wife, the only woman I’ve ever kissed in my lifetime, and slowly press my lips to hers, tasting her sweetness again.
She moans and snuggles into my hold, but I force myself to withdraw.
Quietly, I grab my phone and get out of bed.
The screen flashes. Another incoming message.
The date catches my eye first. January fifteenth, one and a half months until Lana turns thirty-five, when this all comes to a head.
Then I see the message.
Unknown number
If you want to be one step ahead of Sable, don’t wear your heart on your sleeve.
—Always watching, your friend.
A cold line carves down my spine.
My mind flashes to the masked man at the Benefaction, the mysterious phantom who’s been one step ahead, but hasn’t made a move to take down my rook on the chessboard.
Who is he, and what does he want?
The questions hammer through my skull as I stride to the door, but her breathy whisper stops me.
“Elias?” she murmurs and rolls over, baring one smooth shoulder. “Stay. Don’t leave me.”
I pause at the threshold, another sharp pain piercing my chest again.
“Never, princess. I will never leave you.”
Not today, at least.
My body is pleasantly sore when I wake up. A fire roars in the fireplace, the logs crackling a merry rhythm in the background.
I smile when I smell vetiver and smoke, this time with a tinge of mint.
Elias. Kian. My husband.
After getting out of bed, I pull on a silk robe and fasten it at my waist. Images of our lovemaking last night keep me company as I head into the bathroom to freshen up.
I rode him, and then he bent me over, ass up.
He took me against the shower wall and then again in front of the full-length mirror.
He was insatiable, and so was I.
My face glows pink, my lips swollen, my hair knotted at the ends.
I look gloriously fucked, and a delicious ache pulses in my pussy.
He’s not Kian anymore. He’s Elias, a criminal mobster, a murderer.
My mind tries to rationalize, but my heart doesn’t care.
Instead, it thumps a more righteous rhythm, like this is the direction I’ve been searching for. Like my future is supposed to be beside this man.
And I don’t want to think anymore.
I finish my business and head toward the bedroom door, eager to find the enigmatic man himself, when a small object on the nightstand stops me in my tracks.
Silver. A small chain affixed to it. Delicate carvings.
His lighter.
Curious, I pick it up and lift it to the light. It’s beautiful—an antique from what I can tell—with intricate markings similar to his tattoos of vines and roses etched on the side.
I thumb the ridges—small indentations I can’t make sense of. It’s heavier than it looks.
Then I flip it open. A small flame sparks to life.
Why does he carry this thing if he doesn’t smoke? And why does it look so familiar?
The answer perches on the tip of my tongue, a nagging, invisible itch.
I set the lighter down, step through the door—and stop.
Multicolor Christmas lights line the hallway. Classic holiday songs blare from the speakers downstairs.
It’s mid-January. What is he up to?
A smile tugs at my lips as I follow the music down the steps, gaping at the explosion of Christmas greeting me in the dark marble hallways.
A twelve-foot Christmas tree, complete with sparkly garlands and mismatched ornaments—like a toddler with the help of a unicorn oversaw the decorations—sits at the corner of the foyer.
More Christmas lights twinkle along the crown moldings.
A tower of Geraldine’s Chocolate boxes stacked in the shape of a Christmas tree rests beside the real one.
Everywhere I look is Christmas. Ridiculous, over-the-top Christmas.
It’s absurd and gaudy and so specifically me that my throat goes hot for a second.
Cuckoo clocks with Santas popping out. Candles burn, wafting peppermint and vanilla. A small pear tree sits by his office. A tiny wooden drummer boy on a Roomba rams the tree like it’s enemy number one.
And you’ve got to be kidding me, is that two white doves flapping their wings in a birdcage?
Cece scratches at the bars, clearly annoyed her new best friends are out of reach.
I ruffle her fur as I pass by, spotting more chaos.
Inflatable figures of men leaping. A TV tuned to a farm show of women milking cows.
Hannah barrels past me, hands gesturing wildly, a slew of Italian curses spilling from her lips.
Then—loud squawking filters from the kitchen.
You’ve got to be shitting me.
“Quiet down before I make Hannah cook you for dinner. Goose pie. That’s a thing, right?” a deep voice murmurs.
“Don’t you dare!” I call out. “You touch the geese, the doves unionize. I’ll be their fearless leader.”
I hurry into the kitchen, finding Elias with his back toward me, shirtless with a Christmas hat on his head.
He’s whipping something, muscles flexing, and heat blooms in my belly because from my angle, the rapid arm motions look obscene. I want to see him doing this in another setting while he pins me with his lust-filled eyes.
“You’re staring, wife,” he murmurs, his hand still pumping.
“Yeah, well,” I clear my throat, my voice raspy, “you make quite a sight…whatever you’re doing.”
Elias freezes for a second.
Low chuckles rumble out of him. He rolls his neck and resumes the rapid up and down motions. Then the asshole adds sound effects.
Low grunts, growls, quickening pumps of his hips, which look mighty fine in those gray sweatpants of his.
“Wh-What are you doing?”
He barks out a laugh and turns, his green eyes bright with humor. He’s whisking chocolate cake batter.
“Indulging in your dirty fantasies.” Elias winks. Heat shoots embarrassingly low. “Although…they don’t need to stay fantasies. I’m more than happy to give you a live demonstration later.”
His gaze turns molten. My core throbs.
“Don’t always think with your dick,” I mutter and sit on the other side of the counter.
“I’m thinking with my hands. The dick’s just enthusiastic.”
Cece prances in and winds her lithe body around Elias’s ankles, tail flicking like she owns the place.
“Stay away from the devil, Cece. He’s annoying your mom.”
Elias chuckles as the cat leaps onto the counter and purrs against his chest.
“Traitor,” I mutter. “I treat you better than him.”
“Technically,” he says, looking up, amusement sparking in his eyes, “I saved her life.”
“What do you mean?” I squint then gasp. “The café! Cece is the same cat from the café! I knew it!”
He turns his back to the counter and grabs another bowl. “That morning, I saw you making moon eyes at the cat. You wanted to take it home.” His jaw tics. “After I dealt with those assholes and lit the place up, she was there.”
A shiver slides down my spine. Of course that café fire was him. A small part of me still flinches at the bloodshed, but the rest of me knows the violence is part of his reality.
“You saved her,” I whisper.
“Figured you’d want the little menace alive,” he says, his lips quirked in a half-smile. “She’d make you happy.”
Our gazes hold, and for a moment, I’m transported to our teenage years when we talked about dreams of the future.
Something very different from the present.
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I motion to the chaos. “So what is this? The live version of ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’? A little too late, don’t you think? It’s January.”
“A girl once said she wanted to see why anyone would give their true love all that stuff for Christmas.” He chuckles.
My breath snags. I’d almost forgotten my offhand teenage rant.
But he hasn’t.
“So you’re saying you’re my true love then?” Butterflies flap in my stomach.
“You tell me.”
Those brilliant green eyes smolder, then he looks away, pours the batter into a pan, and slides it into the oven with his hip.
A man who cooks with confidence is so sexy.
“Christmas is your favorite holiday,” he adds. “I missed too many of them with you. Figured I’d redo our first one together as adults to make it more memorable.”
The ridiculous decorations blur for a second as my eyes sting.
He’s been carrying a torch for me all these years.
When he turns back, he accidentally knocks his spatula to the ground. It slides under the counter.
“Let me get it.” I get on my knees and reach for it.
“Damn. I need to drop more stuff on the ground.” He whistles low, and my skin heats.
To drive the man nuts, I arch my back like a cat, presenting him my ass. A growl churns out of him.
I snag the spatula and hold it out to him, still on my knees.
For a moment, I think he’ll crouch or kneel to take it.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his jaw tightens. His throat works, his gaze flicking from my hand to the floor, and pain crosses those emerald eyes.
Something snags in my mind.
For all the things he’s revealed—the scars, the fire, the losses—there’s one thing he’s never told me.
And one thing he never does.