Page 82 of Inked Athena

“Yeah, but you weren’t with me. Plus, I was keeping my head down. Barely counts.” His arms snake around my waist. “This time will be different. We’re living the high life at the Ritz Carlton. Trafalgar Suite.”

I nearly choke. “Holy shit— Hope’s gonna lose her mind! That’s theNotting Hillsuite! Julia fucking Roberts stayed there, Sam! I’ll be breathing her air!”

“Pretty sure that air’s long gone by now.”

But I’m already halfway to cloud nine. Finally breaking free from this stone prison.Withhim.

I surge up, claiming his mouth. “That movie’s my absolute favorite! Did you plan this?”

His mysterious shrug comes with another kiss to my crown. “A magician never tells. Now, make moves—we’re wheels up in fifty-seven minutes.”

“Oddly specific.”

“So are your spa appointments.”

My jaw unhinges. “You’re shitting me.”

“Three hours of pure queen treatment. Nothing less for my woman.”

My mind short-circuits. The closest I’ve gotten to spa-level luxury was face-masking with Hope and playing amateur pedicurist. Maybe that’s why my brain starts throwing up roadblocks.

“The puppies, though…” I chew on a nail. “And my garden… Mr. Morris needs help with?—”

“Don’t tell me you’re choosing potatoes over paradise.”

I try to protest—God knows why—but then Sam captures my face between his palms and shuts me up with a kiss that makes my toes curl.

When he breaks away, my head’s spinning like a carousel on acid. “Come on, baby,” he purrs, voice pure sin. “Run away with me.”

Bastard’s playing dirty.

What’s a girl to do but surrender?

The trip from Moorbeath to London feels like someone hit fast-forward on reality.

After weeks of isolation, seeing the world still turning is a mindfuck. Every building is a symphony. Every passing stranger looks like the Mona fucking Lisa.

Then we hit the suite, and I’m counting thread counts like a psychopath. Can’t miss a single detail.

I’m on our balcony, getting high on rose perfume when Sam materializes behind me.

His arms cage me in. “Worth it?”

“That’s rhetorical, right? Only a crazy person would hate this. It’s fucking insane.”

“Good. Because we’re calling it home for the next week.”

I shake my head. “I’ve only ever been in one hotel room before this. It was on the ground floor of the Red Roof Inn in Illinois for my cousin’s wedding.”

Samuil’s mouth twists to the side. “Sounds… quaint.”

I snort. “You don’t have to be polite. It was about as good as it sounds.”

“Did you enjoy yourself?” he asks, still making an effort to be a gentleman.

“Well, I was fifteen and forced to share a room with my brothers. So no, not really.” I break off. It’s the first time I’ve casually mentioned Tommy and Mike since they died.

It’s bizarre, knowing they’re dead. A part of me still has trouble believing it.

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