Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Erin
There are private islands.
And then there is whatever the Bachmans consider a private island.
The Parrish rises out of the Aegean in layers of white stone, green olive trees, and water so blue it looks fake.
I stand at the edge of the terrace in a white silk robe and stare down at the sea. “Lucian.”
No answer.
“Lucian.”
Still nothing.
I turn.
He is lying across the enormous bed with one arm over his eyes.
My husband is pretending to sleep.
Badly.
“Are you ignoring me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you are wearing that robe and standing too far away.”
I smile. “We have been here exactly twelve hours.”
“Eleven hours and forty-two minutes.”
“That is alarming.”
“I have a watch.”
“You aren’t wearing a watch.”
He moves his arm enough to look at me. “I know what time the plane landed.”
It’s only since we became husband and wife that I realized my husband has an internal calendar. “Of course you do.”
The bedroom doors are open to the terrace. Warm wind moves the curtains. I move to the edge, holding the iron railing of the balcony.
Beyond the terrace, white stone villas dot down the green hillside.
Pools. Stone paths. Flowers. A private beach.
Heaven.
A dock with a yacht, I have been informed, is not technically ours because it belongs to the family, which in Bachman language means it is ours whenever we want it while we are on our honeymoon.
The entire mansion we’re staying in is empty except for staff housed far enough away in the guest cottage that Lucian personally checked twice before we went to bed last night.
I walk back toward the bed. His eyes follow me.
Dark. Possessive. Not tired anymore.
Definitely not pretending to sleep. “Come here.”
“Ask nicely, Mr. Bachman.”
His nostrils flare.
I enjoy this too much.
“Please come here.” His voice lowers to a growl. “Now.”
I stop beside the bed. “See? Growth.”
His hand closes around my wrist, and he pulls me down.
I land half on top of him, laughing. He rolls me beneath him.
The robe falls open.
His expression changes.
There are moments when Lucian looks at me like he has never seen a woman before.
I live for those moments.
His fingers trace the gold sword at my throat.
“Mrs. Bachman.”
My stomach flips.
“My wife.”
“Say it again.”
“My wife.”
Heat curls through me. I wrap my legs around his waist. “My husband.”
He kisses me. Not carefully.
We have had careful.
We have had frantic.
Angry.
Desperate.
Shameful.
Healing.
This is different.
There is nowhere we have to be.
No message waiting.
No strategy room.
No enemy with a camera.
No private room to cave to control.
His hands move over me slowly because time is ours.
And we are each other’s.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine.
“Color?”
I smile.
“Green.”
Always the question.
Always the answer he waits for.
He opens my robe completely.
The sea breathes beyond the terrace.
Sunlight spills across the sheets.
For once, I do not feel watched by danger.
Only him.
And that is exactly how I want it.
Later, I wake with my cheek on his chest.
His fingers move through my hair.
I don’t know how long he has been awake. Probably hours. Vampire.
I lift my head. “Did you sleep?”
“Some.”
“That means no.”
“I slept.”
“How long?”
“Enough.”
“Lucian.”
He sighs. “Forty minutes.”
I sit up. “That is not sleep.”
“I was thinking.”
“Even worse.”
He looks toward the open terrace.
I follow his gaze.
The sun is lower now.
Gold across the water.
“What about?”
His hand finds my ring. He turns it around my finger. “Everything.”
“Specific.”
He’s quiet.
I wait.
This is another thing I’ve learned about my husband. Sometimes if I just give him time, he speaks. Sometimes he needs the silence to get there.
Finally, he says, “When I was younger, I thought peace would be boring.”
I smile. “And?”
“When there was an enemy, there was a task. A plan. A person to kill.”
“Romantic.”
He cocks a brow. “You married me.”
“I know. Questionable judgment.”
He squeezes my hip. “But I like it.” He looks at me. “The peace.”
“Me too.” I smile.
His brow furrows. “What do normal people do?”
“Normal people?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I think about it for a moment. My past. Our beginning. “I’m not sure I know.”
We spend six days doing absolutely nothing useful.
I swim.
Lucian pretends he does not hover at the edge of the pool. In the ocean, he doesn’t even try. He lifeguards me as if any one of the calm waves could swallow me whole.
We take the ‘boat’ out. We have dinner on the yacht’s terrace. I scream like a baby when a seagull, attempting to snatch a dinner roll, flies too close.
He never mentions it again because he values his marriage.
We sleep late. Or I sleep late.
He watches me sleep like the undead.
We make love in every room of the villa and one place outside that I refuse to describe because I have standards.
It’s the last night, and we walk down to the beach.
No shoes.
My dress keeps catching in the wind.
Lucian carries a bottle of wine and two glasses.
“This is romantic,” I tell him.
“I brought a gun.”
“There he is.”
We sit near the water.
He pours.
I hold up my glass. “Here’s to surviving our beginning.”
He clinks his glass against mine. “And here’s to surviving you.”
I laugh. We drink.
The waves move in and out.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
Then he says, “I feel something.”
“What’s that?” I ask, happy to help my now emotionally less stunted man process.
“I feel…” His voice lowers as he stares out over the ocean. “I feel happy.”
My heart melts. I smile. “Say it again.”
“I am happy.” He looks at me with a softness in his eyes I’m trying to get used to.
My heart aches. In the good way. I lean into him. “Me too.”
He puts his arm around me.
No enemy appears.
No phone rings.
No one dies.
The world simply keeps moving.
And we let it.