Page 11 of Steal Me

Well, scratch that.

The moment I hear those words, there's no need to pretend.

How could you have forgotten about this part, pauvre imbécile!

I know it's already a miracle that I'm still alive despite breaking the rules in his territory. I know I've been pushing him more and more with every disrespectful word I throw his way.

But...

I've never been kissed, okay?

And so to letthisman, thismonsterof all people—

No, no, no.

I automatically step back. Or try to. But he's faster than my fear, his murderously good hands capturing my waist, his intoxicating scent invading my senses as he pulls me against him.

This can't be happening. I'm not ready. No, oh please...OH?

A shudder rocks my body as his lips press against my forehead. It's the briefest of contacts, neither possessive nor demanding, but instead infinitely gentle.

Je ne comprends pas. I don't understand.

He steps back, and I actually feel abandoned. There's this one disorienting moment that I almost sway towards him as his hands leave my waist, my body betraying me with foolish and self-destructive yearning.

My mind replays the past. Me, walking into his catacombs, never thinking my life would change in the blink of an eye. One moment I'm but one of the many pickpockets in the City of Lights. The next, I'm in a holding room and changing into a cream-colored Chanel dress that fits me like a glove. I'd like to think this was mere coincidence, but I think not.

And now...this.

I hate the way my hand noticeably trembles as I sign our marriage certificates. My husband, on the other hand, it's just the usual for him. He wields the pen like a sword, ink slashing against parchment paper with swift and deadly elegance.

MLD.

That's all he writes. Incursive,of course. Just three letters, but I know for a fact that it's more than enough to have many a hardened criminal run away like the devil is after them. (To be fair: that's how I would feel, too, if I were to find out thatMonsieur Le Dernieris out for my blood.)

"Shall we?"

The words are a command rather than an invitation, and Monsieur Le Dernier is already walking away as I'm forced to hurry after him.

Typical.

It's just a short distance separating us, but I still end up catching my breath by the time I manage to reach his side. My...husband (how am I married just like that?) glances at me, and I feel so unfairly judged.

"What?"

He goes on walking without a single word in reply, and I'm now absolutely convinced I've not just married the king of the catacombs.Monsieur Le Dernierapparently also holds the world title toRudest Man Alive.

The same limo awaits us by the sidewalk, a bulletproof monster that's transported us from warehouse to courthouse, and now, from courthouse to...hm.

"Where are we going?" I ask as soon as I hear the click of passenger doors locking, and the partition between us and his driver slides into place.

His dark blue eyes (why do they look so much like mine?)meet mine. "Home."

I'm about to askwherethat is exactly when my husband, who remains the soul of rudeness, delivers his next blow.

"I am surprised at how remarkably...out of shape you are, considering your profession."

Every word, an insult, but wrapped in a silken drawl with a French-accented-ribbon on the top.

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