41. Michael #4
“If Krystal’s not pregnant by summer, I’m dead. If she is— they’ll test the DNA. If it doesn’t match the bloodlines…” I paused, jaw clenched. “Kaboom.”
Kate pulled back a step. “So what—you’re supposed to sleep with her?”
“No,” I said instantly, voice steel. “I won’t. I would never betray you—my wife.”
Her lip quivered.
“We’re going to a fertility clinic,” I said. “Brett found the best one. They’ll handle it clean. No contact. Just enough to pass the test, satisfy their power trip.”
Brett stepped up, rubbing the back of his neck.
“The baby will be ours. Not theirs. Uncle Brett ain’t letting those monsters near them.
Krystal loves her coke and booze. I’m gonna record all her freak outs too.
All her epic meltdowns—where she loves breaking shit.
Show the courts she’s unstable. Boom we get full custody of baby. ”
Kate’s breathing got shaky, shallow. Her hands went to her chest.
“I can’t—” she gasped, starting to crumble.
I caught her, wrapped my arms around her and held on tight. “Hey. Hey. Breathe. You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
She sobbed into my shirt, voice breaking. “This is all my fault… I started this. I dragged you in. I thought I could fix it, but now?—”
“You didn’t drag me,” I said into her hair. “I ran toward you.”
She looked up, eyes rimmed red. “This isn’t the fairytale I wanted.”
“No,” I agreed. “It’s not. But it’s real. It’s us. And now that all the cards are on the table? We’re going to rewrite this whole damn thing. I swear, Kate. It’s going to be me and you at the end. Might be messy, might be twisted—but it will be us.”
She stared at me for a long time. Then, finally, she whispered, “Yes, Michael. I will love your child. That child’s innocent. They didn’t ask for this.”
Her voice cracked again. “I just wish it was ours.”
I pulled her closer, heart in my throat. “It will be.”
I hated this. Every second of it.
The idea of sending her away again made my skin crawl. But keeping her here was a death sentence.
“She can’t stay with Guerra,” I muttered. “Not anymore.”
Kate folded her arms, that fire in her eyes simmering just under the surface. “He’s not a threat to you.”
“That’s not the point,” I snapped, then softened when I saw her flinch. “You’re my wife now. That changes everything.”
“I’m still me,” she said quietly. “Still capable of protecting myself.”
Brett stepped in, phone in one hand, already texting. “We don’t have time to argue about this. We need somewhere off-grid, fast.”
Kate rattled off a few options. Claire’s toy store. The yacht. Her grandmother’s house.
Brett shot each one down without hesitation. “Too close. Too obvious. Already burned.”
Kate finally sighed. “Fine. Then where?”
“My place,” Brett said.
We both looked at him.
“Out past the casino, ten minutes inland. In the woods. You know I can’t stand the damn slot machines or the lights. Place makes too much noise.” He looked at me. “I’ve got a log cabin tucked away. Remote. Quiet. Perimeter’s already wired. Panic room in the basement.”
I nodded slowly. “It’s secure enough for her?”
“Like Fort Knox,” he said. “And the Feds won’t question it. They know what we are risking. No one can know about the marriage though. Tell no one. Loose lips sink ships and all that.”
Kate blinked. “Okay.”
“We’re keeping that under wraps,” I said. “For now. Safer for everyone.”
Brett glanced between us, smirking. “Doesn’t really matter now, though. You’re married to the boss man. Can’t ever testify against him.” He winked at her. “Spousal protection. Built-in NDA.”
Kate gave me a sly look. “Good to know.” Then she cocked her head. “So, I know I have to leave… but what about consummating our marriage?”
Brett groaned. “Oh, come on.”
She smirked. “What? Ours should be real. Not just legal on paper.”
Brett pointed a finger, stepping back. “Didn’t you two over-consummate last night? You wrecked that suite.”
Kate raised a brow. “That was before the vows.”
He rubbed his face, already reaching for the bourbon. “I’m gonna need more booze for this.”
Kate was still in that dress—cream satin poured over her body like liquid sin, the halter neckline barely holding her breasts, the back completely open so every breath arched her spine like an offering.
Barefoot in the scattered wreckage of the suite, she looked like a 1950s pin-up who’d decided to burn the whole magazine.
Brett shrugged into his leather jacket, eyes sweeping the room one last time.
“Two hours, maybe three— if I sell the hangover right. Hookers, blow, the full Vegas bachelor apocalypse. They’ll buy it.
” He flicked a glance at Kate. “You, sweetheart, ditch the Marilyn fantasy and get back into the maid uniform. My guy at the loading dock owes me. Royal Bastard MC boys’ll have you out and heading east before anyone blinks. ”
He paused at the door, hand on the knob, then looked back at me.
“Boss,” he said, voice low. “Don’t wreck yourself worse than you already have.”
A hard slap between my shoulder blades and he was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Silence rushed in like floodwater.
I turned.
She was already moving.
Three strides and I had her—mouth crashing into mine, no hello, no apology, just hunger that had been caged too long. She tasted like champagne and danger and every bad decision I never regretted.
My hands found the hem of that satin dress and dragged it up her thighs, higher, until I felt bare skin and the thin lace of her thong.
She moaned into my mouth when I gripped her ass hard, fingers digging in, lifting her clean off the floor.
Her legs locked around my waist instantly, heels digging into the small of my back, the dress rucked up around her hips like a white flag of surrender.
I walked her to the bed without breaking the kiss, tongues sliding, teeth nipping, her nails raking down my neck. When her back hit the mattress she arched up, breasts straining against the satin, nipples already hard and begging.
I ripped the halter knot loose with one pull.
The fabric peeled away and her tits spilled free—full, perfect, flushed pink.
I groaned and took one in my mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking the peak while my hand kneaded the other.
She cried out, fingers twisting in my hair, pulling me closer, hips rolling against the ridge of my cock straining behind my zipper.
“Inside me,” she gasped. “Now. I need?—”
I didn’t make her finish. I shoved my pants down just enough, fisted my cock, and dragged that soaked scrap of lace to the side. One brutal thrust and I buried myself to the hilt. She was scalding, velvet tight, clenching around me like she was trying to brand me from the inside.
“Fuck—Kate?—”
Her legs tightened, ankles locked, dragging me deeper.
I pulled back and slammed in again, harder, the headboard cracking against the wall with every thrust. Skin slapped skin, wet and filthy and perfect.
She clawed at my shoulders, my back, anywhere she could reach, marking me like I was marking her.
“Look at me,” I growled.
Her eyes snapped open—dark, glassy, wrecked. I held them as I fucked her like the world was ending, like these were the last minutes we’d ever have. Sweat dripped from my chest onto her breasts; I licked it off her skin and she shuddered, pussy fluttering around my cock.
“Come for me,” I rasped, reaching between us to circle her clit with my thumb, rough and fast. “Let me feel it. Let me feel you break.”
She did—screaming my name, back bowing off the bed, walls spasming so hard it dragged me over the edge with her. I drove in deep and stayed there, pulsing, spilling inside her with a guttural groan that felt ripped out of my soul. Mine. Even if only for this moment, she was mine.
I collapsed over her, both of us shaking, hearts hammering against each other. When I finally lifted my head, tears tracked down her temples into her hair.
I kissed them away—salt and sex and satin—tasting every unspoken goodbye.
If this was all we got, I’d make it enough to last a lifetime.
But heaven help any bastard who tried to keep her from me forever.
The ballroom was a fucking circus.
Crystal chandeliers, gold-trimmed everything, and a red carpet that had seen more blood than a butcher’s floor.
The guests were a who's who of underworld royalty—Russian oligarchs, Colombian cartel sons, Sicilian dons, and dirty American congressmen playing both sides of the law. Everyone kissed the ring today.
Including me.
The music shifted. Heads turned. And down the aisle came my bride—this bride.
Krystal.
She looked like she’d been poured into her designer dress with a shoehorn and sealed with industrial glue.
Too much cleavage. Too much contour. Too much perfume.
Everything about her screamed money and manipulation.
Her hair was coiled into some complicated updo that probably took five hours and six stylists.
Her fake smile was the only thing faker than this marriage.
She looked nothing like the woman I’d married at dawn a few days ago.
Not even in the same stratosphere.
Kate—barefoot in satin, freckles on her nose, eyes still swollen from crying, lips swollen from kissing—that was a bride.
Krystal was a costume.
I forced my jaw to unclench as her brother, Kaim, swaggered down the aisle at her side, practically dragging her with him. Their uncle, Redmond, followed behind like a mob pope ready to officiate. My stomach turned.
Kaim leaned in as we met halfway, his mouth next to my ear.
“If you fuck this up,” he whispered, “I’ll slit your throat and then Kate’s. In that order.”
I didn’t flinch. Just nodded once. Let him think I was afraid.
But inside, something cold settled in my bones.
I was here. In the suit. On the stage.
But my heart? My soul?
That was back in the desert sunrise with my real wife.
This was just a pageant.
And one day soon, I’d burn the whole damn set down.