Page 80 of The Assassin's Captive
"True." She holds up her hand, admiring the way the ring looks on her finger. "It's beautiful."
"You'll marry me."
It's not a question, not a request. It's a statement of fact, delivered with the same certainty I use when discussing weather or the time of day.
"Will I?"
"Yes. When it's safe, when the timing is right, when Emilio decides it serves the family's interests." I lean closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "But mostly because you belong to me now, and I don't share."
She studies my face, looking for something I hope she finds. "What if I say no?"
"You won't."
"You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm sure of us."
Her free hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb tracing the scar that runs down to my jaw. "You know I'm going to make your life complicated, right? I don't follow orders well. I ask too many questions. I have opinions about everything."
"I'm counting on it."
She grins and launches herself at me, knocking me backward against the couch cushions. Her fingers find my ribs, and suddenly, she's tickling me with ruthless efficiency. I try to maintain composure, but laughter escapes despite my best efforts.
"Serena—stop?—"
"Say please."
"I don't say please."
Her fingers dig deeper, finding spots that make me gasp and squirm beneath her. "Everyone says please eventually."
"Never."
"We'll see about that."
The tickling intensifies, and I find myself laughing harder than I have in years. She's relentless, strategic, clearly enjoyingthe fact that she's found a weapon against me that doesn't require violence.
"Please," I finally gasp out. "Please stop."
She sits back on my chest, victorious. "There. Was that so hard?"
I flip her beneath me before she can react, pinning her wrists above her head. She's still giggling, hair spread across the couch cushions, ring catching the last light from the dying fire.
"You're going to be trouble," I tell her.
"The best kind of trouble."
I lean down to kiss her, tasting laughter and wine and promises on her lips.
"Mine," I whisper against her mouth.
"Yours," she agrees. "Forever."
I don’t let her up. My weight pins her to the cushions, my hands still holding her wrists in place. Her laughter softens into breathless anticipation, her pupils blown wide as I drag my gaze over her face. She knows what’s coming, and the faint hitch in her breath tells me she wants it as much as I do.
“You think you can win with tickles?” My voice is low, rough around the edges. “That’s not how this works.”
She bites her lip, defiant even with her hands trapped above her head. “Maybe I like winning.”
