Page 89 of Unholy Union
The muscle in his jaw bounces as he chews and gives a begrudging nod. “That’s… not half bad.”
“Told you. You need to listen to me more often. Here, take another bite. Get more bacon with the jalapeño this time.”
After we finish eating, we wander toward the carnival games. Cato is all sharp focus and cool precision as he takes on the Hot Shots challenge, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, broadshoulders squared with competitive intensity. I watch, amused and impressed, as he sinks basket after basket with infuriating ease.
When the bell dings and the game lights up in victory, the teenager running the booth gestures toward the rack of prizes. Cato barely hesitates before choosing the largest, fluffiest stuffed bear they have.
The bear is a raspberry pink with an off-center bowtie and stitched button eyes.
He hands it over to me with an amused gleam in his eyes. I laugh at that alone and hug it to my chest like a kid.
“I’ll treasure it always,” I tease him.
“Or as long as it takes before we both get tired of its lopsided eyes and toss it in the trash.”
“He’s kinda cute in an ugly way, you know? If that makes sense.”
“It doesn’t.”
He takes my hand as we meander through the crowds.
The sunlight has softened into a warm golden hue so late in the afternoon. People laugh, children scream with joy in the distance, and for the first time ever, I feel like we’re just a couple in the crowd.
No titles. No stakes. No mafia bloodlines hanging over our heads.
“I never imagined we’d be spending a day like this together.”
He nods slowly. “Neither did I.”
We fall quiet again. It’s a comfortable kind of silence. The kind that comes when words are no longer needed to fill the space between two people.
Then he shifts, beckoning his head in a new direction. “C’mon. I’ve got one more idea.”
He grabs my hand, lacing his fingers between mine as we weave through the crowd. I follow him toward a nondescriptlittle structure by the edge of the arcade section, its paint faded and its sign crooked: an old-fashioned photobooth.
When we reach it, he snatches an “Out of Order” sign from a nearby prize stand and plants it on the front of the booth.
I blink, completely lost. “What are you doing?”
He grins. “Securing a little privacy.”
Cato jerks the curtain closed, sealing us off from the carnival noise outside. The seat bench is narrow, barely built for two, but that doesn’t stop him—he sits down first and drags me onto his lap with no room to protest.
His hands lock around my hips like a vise. I let out a breathy laugh as I settle in place, legs pressed close, his chest solid and hot against my back.
My fingers hover over the glowing button and I glance at him over my shoulder.
“Smile for the camera.”
“You know better than to make that kind of request.”
I roll my eyes, pressing the button anyway.
The first flash goes off.
I beam at the camera, the opposite of my husband. Cato sits like a statue—cool, impassive, dignified—his expression better suited for a press release than a carnival photo strip.
The second flash pops, and I change it up, throwing a peace sign and sticking out the tip of my tongue. His arm tightens around my waist, but he still doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But his attention shifts, switching from the camera toward me.
