Page 101 of Desperate People

No one breathes near her without bleeding for it.

And that’s the only reason I allow my wife to step foot, gloriously naked, into the open air.

What can I say?

I might have a slight jealousy problem.

Tiny. Barely there.

Okay, maybe not barely there.

But even possessive as I am, I’m her husband. I won’t be her prison guard.

And I’m with her, so I know nothing will happen.

I’ve got my security system so fine-tuned I’d capture the sound of a mosquito farting if it so much as dared fly on to my property.

No one can get to us here.

And for the first time since I’ve known her, my wife looks blissful. I like that look on her face.

Wanna keep it there.

The infinity pool glows under dark blue lights, casting her in an otherworldly shimmer.

A fucking goddess carved out of desire and moonlight.

I gently lower her to the ground and her bare feet touch the warm deck. Then she turns away from me—trusting me—and walks toward the water like a vision.

Every curve, every sway of her hips, every glint of moonlight on her damp skin has me feral with the need to claim her all over again.

She doesn’t see me as I stand there, watching. But I see everything.

And in this moment, I understand why the world is in love with Lucy Volkov.

But the world doesn’t know her.

Not like I do.

The world sees the polished smile, the press-perfect beauty, the imitation of a person flashing across an iPhone screen.

But I’ve touched the real woman underneath.

I’ve heard her laugh when she thinks no one’s listening.

Felt her tremble with need and trust.

Seen the doubt in her eyes when she thinks she’s too much—or not enough.

She’s both. And neither. She’s just her.

And I didn’t marry her because her father threatened me.

I didn’t marry her because of a scandal.

I married her because somewhere between obsession and protection, I fell.

Hard.

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