Page 148 of Surrender to Me
“Denver,” I say. “Your condo. Headquarters. You stay operational enough to breathe, and I get you in our bed every night.”
He squeezes once, hard. “You’re more than I deserve, Lyra.”
The first course arrives—seared scallops in brown butter, steam curling up between us. As we dream about the future we’re going to create, more food follows.
This is one of the best nights I ever remember.
The waiter clears the last of the dessert plates—warm chocolate tart with a scoop of huckleberry ice cream that melted into perfect purple rivers across the china—and refills our wine one final time before vanishing with a discreet nod.
The fire has settled into a steady glow, embers pulsing like a slow heartbeat behind the screen. Outside the windows, snow has started to fall again, fat silent flakes drifting past the glass, erasing the valley one layer at a time.
We are both quiet, the kind of quiet that comes after hours of talking about everything and nothing at all.
I’m pleasantly full, with the wine humming warm through my veins.
Stryker’s foot has been hooked around my ankle under the table since the second course, his thumb tracing idle patterns on the inside of my knee whenever the conversation lulled.
Every touch feels deliberate now, like he has been waiting for this exact moment when the meal is finished and the room is truly ours.
He sets his glass down, the crystal base ringing softly against the wood. His fingers linger on the stem for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he slides them away.
Then he pushes his chair back, the scrape of wood on wood loud in the hush. My breath catches, sharp in my throat.
Stryker rises, all controlled power, and crosses the room in three deliberate strides.
I tip my head to the side, studying him, wondering what he’s up to.
His hand closes over the brass lock on the heavy door, thumb pressing down with a decisive twist. The click echoes through the quiet space, final and absolute, sealing us inside this warm cocoon of firelight and snow-muffled silence.
He tests the handle once, a quick tug that confirms no one is coming in, no one is interrupting what is about to happen between us.
Once that’s taken care of, he turns back to me, eyes dark and fixed. The air seems to thicken as it charges with expectation.
My pulse pounds now, hard and insistent in my throat, between my legs, a relentless drumbeat that matches the heat flooding my skin.
He returns to me, every step measured, deliberate.
“Styker?”
When he reaches my side, he drops to one knee, the motion fluid and certain, the firelight gilding the hard lines of his shoulders, the strong column of his throat.
Oh my God.
His hand disappears into his jacket pocket. When it emerges, he is holding a small black box.
My heart stops.
No.
He can’t mean…
With one thumb, he flips the lid open.
The ring inside is a single flawless diamond set in blackened platinum, simple and devastating, catching every flicker of flame and throwing it back like a promise.
I can’t breathe.
“Lyra.” His voice is gravel and smoke and everything that has kept me alive these past weeks.
