Page 121 of Desperate People

I don’t just want her.

I need her.

Her presence. Her scent. Her towels. Her trust.

Her everything.

And I’ll spend every fucking day earning this—whatever this is.

Because no one else gets this part of her.

Only me.

Only her husband.

And that right there is something I just learned about myself—I’m proud of this. Of us. Of belonging to her.

Some might call that whipped, but I don’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks or says. Because as of right now, only we matter.

Lucy Cruz is the only person who gets a say in my life. And I will spend every minute of mine making sure she is safe and happy and with me.

Always.

“Come here,” I murmur after I place the comb back on the vanity.

She rises. So sweet and trusting.

I lead her to the bed, dropping my towel, and she follows suit.

I pause, just admiring her before I pull the blanket and sheet down, waiting for her to climb in.

Then I join her on our bed. I don’t have to ask or cajole. She simply turns and places her head on my chest, and I wrap her in my arms.

“Balor?”

“Yeah,” I grunt the word more than speak it.

“I love you,” she whispers.

But before I can think or move or say it back, she falls asleep.

And my whole world gets a little brighter all because of her.

Chapter Twenty-Nine-Lucy

I wake up alone.

The Egyptian cotton sheets are cool where Balor’s body should be, and for a moment, I feel the hollow ache of missing him before I even open my eyes.

But then I spot the folded note on his pillow, my name scrawled in his firm, unmistakable hand.

I’ll be home at six to take you to your parents’ house for dinner, Wife.

Be good.

– B

The word Wife sends a flutter through me, low and hot. I press the note to my chest for a second longer than necessary, trying not to read too much into how that one word makes me feel seen and claimed—and his.

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