Page 61 of His Ruthless Vow

"Let me see all of you," I murmur against her skin, and she arches, helping me remove the fabric barriers between us.

Each piece of clothing discarded reveals more of her—the curves of her breasts, the strength in her thighs, the softness of her belly. I worship every inch, my hands and mouth learning the map of her body in a way that's reverent. This isn't fucking. This is something else entirely.

Our movements are slow, deliberate, the kind of desperation that comes when you almost lost something you didn't realize you needed. When I finally push inside her, the sensation nearly breaks me. The tight heat of her, the way her fingernails dig into my shoulders, how her breath catches on a moan—it's everything.

"Look at me," she demands, and I do.

Kendra grips my face between her hands, forcing me to meet her eyes. Even now, even with me buried inside her, she commands. And I yield willingly, something I've never done for anyone else.

"I love you," she whispers, her lips brushing mine, her voice a mix of vulnerability and demand that only she could balance.

I thrust deeper, watching her eyes flutter but never close, never break contact with mine. My voice is hoarse when I answer. "Say it again."

She clenches around me, her body responding to the truth in my voice before she can form words. "I love you, Enzo," she whispers back, and something in me breaks open.

We move together, finding a rhythm that speaks what words can't—how close we came to losing this, how we chose each other despite everything. When she starts to tremble, I slide my hand between us, circling that sensitive bundle of nerves until she's calling my name, her body arching beneath mine.

I follow her over the edge, climaxing hard as she pulses around me, my forehead pressed to hers, our breath mingling in the space between us.

"I love you. And I'm never letting you go," I tell her afterward, my voice rough with emotion I've never allowed myself to feel. "Never."

37

KENDRA

Sunshine streams through the restaurant's windows, making the mimosas on our table glow like liquid gold. I run a finger along the condensation on my glass, enjoying the chatter of the busy brunch spot around us. My friends' faces are bright with weekend freedom—and relentless curiosity.

"Okay, spill it," Jazz says, leaning across our corner table, her curls bouncing as she narrows her eyes at me. "You've been dodging my texts all week."

For once, I don't feel the immediate urge to deflect. The weight I've carried for so long—the constant vigilance, the walls I built—feels lighter somehow.

Skye eyes me over her avocado toast, a knowing smirk playing across her perfectly lined lips. "You look different."

"Different how?" I ask, but I already know. I can feel it myself—something's shifted inside me.

Jazz grins, swirling her mimosa with practiced elegance. "Maybe because she finally got laid properly." She raises her glass in a mock toast. "And thank fucking god for that."

I roll my eyes, but I don't argue. The memory of Enzo's hands on my skin sends a pleasant shiver down my spine. But it's not just that. It's not just the sex—though holy hell, the sex is incredible. It's something more fundamental.

"It's not just about getting laid," I say, surprising myself with my honesty. "It's about... I don't know. For once, I'm not running."

My words hang in the air between us. I've spent years perfecting the art of keeping people at a distance, of never letting anyone see beyond the confident exterior. But here I am, laying myself bare to the three women who know me best.

Mikayla watches me carefully, her sweet face thoughtful as she toys with her French toast. Then she asks softly, "You're happy, aren't you?"

The question catches me off guard. Am I happy? Not just satisfied, not just content, but actually happy?

I pause, then nod. "Yeah. I am."

And it's true. The realization washes over me like warm water. I'm happy. With Enzo. With his dogs. With the life we're building in the aftermath of everything we've survived.

"Well, shit," Skye says, but her eyes are warm. "Never thought I'd see the day Kendra Washington would fall for a man with a criminal record."

"Says the woman who married a literal crime boss," I counter, and we all laugh.

"To complicated men," Jazz raises her glass. "May they always be worth the trouble."

We clink glasses, and for the next hour, I tell them everything—well, almost everything. Some parts of what happened with Enzo, with Zenon and Ercole, are still too raw. But I tell them enough. About his dogs. About his books. About the way he looks at me when he thinks I don't notice.

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