Page 28 of Knuckles & Knives
“Your father had a contingency plan. Multiple contingency plans, actually.” Marcus stands and moves around the desk, coming to stand beside my chair. His proximity is distracting. I can smell him beneath his expensive cologne, and my pulse quickens. “He knew there were threats to his life and made arrangements to ensure his legacy would survive his death.”
“What kind of arrangements?”
Marcus leans over me to point at something on the screen, his arm brushing against my shoulder. The contact sends electricity shooting through my nerves, and I have to fight to keep my breathing steady.
“Shell companies, trust funds, investment portfolios—all designed to preserve and grow the family fortune while remaining invisible to rival organizations.” His voice is close to my ear, intimate in a way that makes my skin tingle. “He was planning for your future, Raven. Making sure you’d have the resources to reclaim what was yours when the time came.”
“How do you know all this?”
Marcus goes very still, his hand pausing on the desk beside me. When he speaks, his voice is careful and controlled. “Because I helped him set it up.”
I twist in my chair to face him, suddenly aware of how close we are, how his dark eyes have gone intense behind those designer glasses. “You worked for my father?”
“I worked with your father. There’s a difference.” He straightens slightly but doesn’t move away, keeping me trapped between his body and the chair. “Vincent Blackwood was a visionary, Raven. He understood that the criminal underworld was evolving, becoming more sophisticated, more connected to legitimate business interests. He needed someone who could navigate both worlds seamlessly.”
“And that someone was you.”
“Among others.” His hand comes up to rest on the back of my chair, his knuckles brushing against my shoulder. “Your father trusted very few people completely. I was fortunate enough to be one of them.”
“Then why didn’t you help him when the Sterling Syndicate came for him?” I ask even though Marcus implicated Jacek Kowalski.
Pain flashes across Marcus’s features, so brief I almost miss it. “Because he ordered me not to. His final instructions were clear—protect his daughter, preserve his legacy, and wait for the right moment to strike back.”
“You’ve been watching me for years because my father told you to?”
“I’ve been watching you for years because I promised him I would.” Marcus’s other hand comes up to frame my face, his thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. “But that’s not why I’m still watching you.”
The touch sends heat spiraling through my body, and I find myself leaning into it despite every instinct telling me to maintain distance. “Why then?”
“Because somewhere along the way, protecting Vincent Blackwood’s daughter became less important than protecting you.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper. “Because watching you from afar for five years has been the sweetest kind of torture, and I’m tired of denying what I want.”
“Marcus—”
“Do you know what it’s like to see someone every day and not be able to touch them? To know their routines, their favorite coffee shop, their preferred route home, but never be able to approach?” His thumb moves to trace my lower lip, and I can’t help the way I part my lips at the contact. “I’ve watched you rebuild yourself from nothing, watched you train and fight and become the woman your father always knew you could be. I’ve been in love with your strength for years.”
I suck in a breath. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t I?” His smile is soft and knowing. “You bite your lower lip when you’re thinking. You take your coffee black with exactly one sugar. You have nightmares about your father’s death at least twice a week, but you never let them show on your face the next day. You’ve read every book in your apartment at least twice, and you have a weakness for old detective movies that you watch when you can’t sleep.”
Each observation hits like a revelation, proof of just how closely he’s been monitoring my life. The thought should be disturbing, invasive, but instead it sends warmth spreading through my chest.
“That’s not love,” I whisper. “That’s surveillance.”
“Is it?” He leans closer, his forehead almost touching mine. “Then what do you call the fact that I’ve eliminated three separate threats to your safety without you ever knowing theyexisted? What do you call the scholarship that mysteriously appeared to pay for your self-defense classes or the job opportunities that opened up exactly when you needed them?”
My heart stops. “You’ve been?—”
“Taking care of you in every way I could without revealing myself.” His lips are inches from mine now, his breath warm against my skin. “Your father asked me to protect you, Raven. He never said I couldn’t fall in love with you while I did it.”
The space between us disappears as he kisses me, his mouth covering mine with gentle precision. Where Dom was consuming fire and Kieran controlled intensity, Marcus is thorough exploration. He kisses me like he has all the time in the world, like he’s been waiting years for this moment and wants to savor every second.
His hands slide into my hair, careful not to disturb the intricate braid, while mine fist in the fabric of his expensive shirt. He tastes like mint and possibilities, like secrets and promises rolled into one intoxicating package.
His tongue pushes against my lips, and I part them, giving him access, surprised by the intensity of my own need. This is Marcus—calculating, controlled Marcus—and yet there’s nothing calculated about the way he holds me, nothing controlled about the soft sound he makes when I suck his tongue.
“Raven,” he breathes against my mouth.
“Is this part of protecting me?” I ask, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes.
