Page 113 of Desperate People

I saw the name of the florist shop on the steady flow of information my security team enters into the log like clockwork.

All that info goes right to an app on my cell phone.

A little unhinged? Maybe.

And no, I’m not sorry about it because her safety is something I will never be lax on.

So, yeah, I look up the driver. See his route. It looks legit.

And I hold back. I let it happen.

Because if I start denying her things like deliveries, I'm no better than the monsters trying to own her for real.

And I’ll never be that. Not to her.

But don’t mistake restraint for indifference.

I’m barely keeping it together.

It’s not about trust. It’s about protection.

Because I still haven’t unmasked the bastard who broke into her apartment before our wedding.

I’ve chased shadows, scrubbed footage, traced IPs, and interrogated my own staff.

Whoever it was, they were fucking slick.

But now this?

Sending a bouquet of tiger lilies and a QR code with a song called “Ella es de él, pero yo la quiero.”

She's his, but I want her.

Fuck. No.

That little fame-hungry bastard is poking a sleeping beast.

He doesn’t realize that Lucy isn’t some influencer or a pop princess to chase around for clout.

She’s my wife.

Mine.

And I don’t give a fuck how many chart-topping singles he’s got—he crossed a line.

You don’t threaten what’s mine.

You don’t look at her, breathe in her direction, or so much as hum a song with her name on your tongue without consequences.

The need to see her—to lay eyes on her, hold her, reassure myself she’s still safe—is burning like a goddamn wildfire under my skin.

Because she’s not just some woman in my bed.

She’s the only thing in this world that makes me feel human.

She’s the only one who ever made me think forever might be real.

And I’ll burn the whole fucking world to ash before I let anyone take her from me.

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