Page 183 of Made for Sinners

“Do you remember,” I said softly, “the first time we danced?”

His hand pressed against the small of my back, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate circles over the lace of my dress. “I do,” he murmured, his voice low and steady.

“I told you…” My voice wavered slightly, the memory vivid even now. “I told you that you made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.”

His lips curved into a faint smirk, his dark eyes locked on mine. “And I told you that you were mine,” he said, his voicedipping lower. “That I’d protect what’s mine. Whether you liked it or not.”

A shiver ran through me, just like it had that night. “You meant it,” I whispered.

“I still do.” His gaze darkened, his hand tightening slightly as he pulled me closer. “Do I still make you feel that way?”

“Like I can’t breathe?” I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. “Yes.”

His fingers splayed against my back, grounding me in the moment. His voice dropped, quieter now, but no less intense. “Good,” he said. “Because you do the same to me.”

The weight of his words settled between us, the music fading into the background as the memory of that night lingered in the air. He hadn’t just said I was his back then—he’d claimed me. And now, here we were, years later, and nothing had changed.

I tilted my head slightly, my lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “And yet, here you are.” I said softly, leaning in just a fraction closer. “Married to me. Again.”

He smirked. “I’m a glutton for punishment.”

I reached up, brushing my fingers along the line of his jaw. “You’re a fool.”

“For you?” he said, catching my wrist and pressing a kiss to the inside of it. “Always.”

The words settled in my chest like a promise. Not loud, not dramatic. Just steady. Certain.

I leaned in, resting my forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For choosing me. For choosing this.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his expression unreadable. “You think I had a choice?”

I frowned.

He smiled. “I didn’t. Not really. Not after that first night. Not after you stole my watch and then had the audacity to call a $960,000 Patek Philippepedestrian.”

I laughed. “You loved it.”

“I did.”

He kissed me then—slow and deep and full of everything we didn’t need to say out loud. His hands slid up my back, fingers tangling in my hair, and I melted into him like I’d been waiting my whole life to be held this way.

When we finally pulled apart, I was breathless.

“Take me home,” I whispered.

He didn’t ask which one.

42

EPILOGUE - EMILIA

The air in Tuscany tasted like freedom.

Or maybe it was just the wine.

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