Page 63 of Sadistic

She sits on my counter while I make sandwiches, occasionally stealing bites before I'm done.

"You know, for a Bratva prince, you make a decent sandwich," she observes.

"I have many hidden talents."

"I'm starting to see that." She hooks her ankles behind my back, pulling me between her legs. "What other surprises do you have?"

"Patience," I say, kissing her. "I waited five years for this."

"Was it worth it?"

"Ask me in the morning when we're both sober."

We go back to bed, curling around each other like we've done this a thousand times.

She falls asleep first, mouth slightly open, one hand fisted in my chest hair like she's anchoring herself.

I stay awake longer, memorizing the feeling of her weight against me, the sound of her breathing, the way the city lights paint her skin silver.

I wake before dawn, habit and instinct pulling me from sleep.

She's still curled against me, hair spread across my pillow like she belongs there.

Because she does.

The certainty of it hits me like a bullet—she belongs here, with me, always.

Carefully, I extract myself and pull on my pants.

The city is just beginning to wake below, lights flickering on in windows as people start their normal lives.

I make coffee—exactly how she likes it, no sugar, just a splash of cream—and stand on the balcony thinking about how everything has shifted.

In twelve days, she'll be my wife. But now she'll also be my lover, my choice, my equal.

"Running away?"

I turn to find her in my shirt, legs bare, looking like every fantasy I've never admitted to having.

Her hair is a mess, mascara smudged under her eyes, and she's never been more beautiful.

"Making coffee." I hand her the mug. "Though running did cross my mind."

"Why?"

"Because now I have something to lose." I pull her against me, her back to my chest, so we can both watch the sunrise. "Before, you were an idea. A future possibility. Now you're real."

"I was always real."

"Not to me. Not like this." I breathe in the scent of her hair—my shampoo mixed with her perfume. "Twelve days until the wedding."

Her phone buzzes from inside—multiple times in rapid succession.

She sighs but doesn't move.

"Dalla," she says. "I should go."

"I'll drive you."

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