Page 127 of The Toy Collector

I don’t answer. I just watch her fingers, the way they hesitate just a fraction of a second before lifting the lid. There’s always that moment with my toy—that split second where she considers whether to keep fighting me, even over the smallest things.

When she sees what’s inside, the change is immediate. Her body goes completely still. The box sits open in her palm, and inside it, a sleek obsidian business card catches the low amber light from the lamp behind us. Her name is engraved in gold beside mine. Our title beneath it.

Piper & Lorenzo Russo

Chief Executive Officers

Blackwood Strategic Advisory

On the back, it reads:

Effective: Upon graduation.

One fingertip traces the raised letters of her name—my name—as if testing whether they might vanish under her touch. Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak.

“You and me, Toy. Forever.” The words leave me like a vow, low and certain. Not a request. A declaration.

She finally looks up, those green eyes finding mine. “Are you proposing?”

I shake my head slowly, reaching to take the card from her. I hold it between us, turning it so the light catches the engraving. “It’s not a proposal, Piper. It’s a fact.”

A tear spills over, tracking down her cheek. She doesn’t brushit away. Instead, she takes a shaky breath and sets the box aside, reaching for the package in her lap. Her hands aren’t completely steady as she hands it to me.

“Your turn.”

The weight of the box surprises me. It’s heavier than it looks. I tear the paper away with less patience than I typically show, revealing a wooden case beneath. The lid opens on silent hinges to reveal a jigsaw puzzle.

The pieces are brutalist sculptures in miniature—stark, angular, uncompromising. I lift one of them, feeling its weight, the cold stone warming in my palm.

Then I see the paper with a print of what the finished puzzle looks like. It’s of us; of me carrying her out of the secret hospital wing at Arlington Diagnostic & Preventive Services after Ben drugged her.

Piper shifts closer, her fingers brush against my wrist. “This is when I knew,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m yours, Lorenzo, and you’re mine. I love you.”

I can’t speak. The puzzle piece is still in my hand, and I’m suddenly aware of how easily I could crush it. How fragile stone can be. How fragile everything is except what I feel for her.

She’s watching me, waiting. Always gauging my reactions. But there’s something else there too—a hunger for my approval that she would deny if I pointed it out.

“Say something,” she demands, and I hear the smallest tremor in her voice.

I don’t answer with words. I can’t. Instead, I place the piece carefully back in the case, close it, and set it on the coffee table. Then I grasp her face between my hands and take her mouth in a kiss.

The sudden movement knocks the case. It topples, spilling pieces across the hardwood floor with sharp, decisive clicks. I hear them rolling, scattering, but I don’t care. All I care about is the taste of her, the soft noise she makes as I bite her lower lip, the way her fingers curl into my hair.

Piper breaks the kiss first, her lips red and swollen from my teeth. Her palm flattens against my chest, not pushing me away but establishing her intent.

“I love you,” she repeats.

“And I love you, my toy,” I vow.

There’s a glint in her eyes—that particular shine that means she’s about to take what she wants. My body responds before my mind can catch up, blood rushing south as she presses me backward until I’m lying flat on the sofa.

“So,” she says, straddling my thighs, “we should talk about the future.” Her fingers trace idle patterns on my chest, dipping lower with each pass. “If I’m going to be a Russo, we need to make some plans.”

I could flip her over, take control back in an instant. But watching her hover above me, her skin flushed and her eyes bright with purpose, is everything.

“What kind of plans?” I keep my voice measured despite the heat building under my skin.

“I want us to move in together. For real.” Her fingertips trace each muscle with deliberate slowness. “Not your place. Not mine. Somewhere new. Somewhere just for us.”

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