Page 92 of Desperate Crimes
Or maybe something darker.
He leads me out of the bar, one possessive hand at the small of my back, guiding me like I’m already his.
The late summer air hits my skin like a slap—cool and sobering—but not enough to break the spell.
A sleek black limo waits by the curb.
The door opens before we reach it, and Nico nudges me inside. I don’t resist.
But the surprise waiting inside stops me short.
We’re not alone.
Seated in the back of the limo is an older man, white hair, beard, and he’s wearing—what the hell—is that a priest’s collar?
Nico’s voice is a command. Sharp. Cold.
“Leanna, this is Preacher. Here.” He tosses my purse at the man, who catches it without flinching. “Her ID is inside. Use the portable scanner. You got the license?”
“Yes, Mr. Fury,” the man says with a reverence that has my heart hammering against my ribs.
He digs into my purse, pulls out my license.
Then, he takes a small scanner off the seat beside him, flips open the case and begins the process of copying my ID with all the speed and ease that tells me he’s done this before.
Nico doesn’t look at me.
He’s busy signing a stapled document Preacher hands him.
Then Nico holds it out to me with a pen.
“Sign it. Right there, Princess.”
I stare.
“I—what is this?”
“It’s a license,” he says, like it’s nothing.
“What kind of license?”
“A marriage License.”
Like it’s a casual Tuesday arrangement and not a declaration of lifelong possession.
My hand moves before my brain can catch up, pen trembling as I scrawl my name where he pointed.
Nico glances at Preacher.
“Now marry us.”
And just like that—the insane weekend we shared, my leaving, him chasing, the world outside, my doubts—they all fall away.
Because I am no longer just Leanna Volkov.
I’m his.
And he’s mine.
