Page 108 of Desperate Crimes
There’s a freckle on her collarbone I want to taste.
A pulse in her throat that jumps when I look at her too long.
And I always look too long.
My heart swells with a love so violent it doesn’t feel like love at all—it feels like need.
Like blood and flame and barbed wire pulling tight around something soft and sacred.
I want to say the words.
The ones she deserves. The ones she aches to hear.
But they catch in my throat every time.
So I show her.
I try to, at any rate.
I cook for her. I keep her warm.
I order her gifts.
Worship her body like a man on his knees before a goddess.
Make love to her like a madman.
Like she’s not just my obsession but my breath, my blood, my compass in this fucked-up world.
Now we’re going to face them. All of them.
Her parents, her aunts and uncles, my family too. The cousins. The kids.
The empire of blood and influence we were both born into.
They’ll all be there. Watching.
Judging.
Some will think I stole her. Some will think I forced her.
They might call me a thief. But I’m not some common criminal in the night.
I know the law. I am the law in rooms most of them are too afraid to enter.
And by every sacred contract, by blood and ink and the seal of her breathless yes—I own this woman.
But it’s more than that.
Leanna is mine. But I’m hers, too.
And tonight, the world will finally see that I didn’t just steal a bride—I claimed a queen.
The limo slices down the coast highway like a blade—polished, quiet, and deceptively civilized.
Leanna sits beside me, all silken curves and quiet tension.
She’s staring out the window at the sea, but I can feel her.
