Page 12 of Captive Desires
This is what I wanted when I held a knife to his throat last night.
“You might have been a virgin before,” he whispers. “But now you’re mine.”
His.
I brush my knuckles on his cheek. “You’re mine, Ian Abernathy. You and me and soon, our child.”
“Here’s the plan,” he says, after long minutes of kisses that had begun to trail down my neck. “In a fortnight we’re going to get married, and you’ll be around two weeks pregnant.” His tone is as absolute as lightning. It cannot be argued with, or rationalised. It is deadly to any who don’t respect it. “Your father will accept a swap of the de-escalation of hostilities on my side, for the price of his best assassin and daughter’s hand in marriage. Or we’ll bankrupt him. Easy choice, I’d say.”
I breathe him in. How did I get so lucky? “Not long to arrange a wedding.”
“Nope.”
“You haven’t proposed yet,” I point out.
“Cleo Whitlock,” he says against my lips. “Be mine. I will love and cherish and protect you every day of my life, whatever you say. So your choices are captive, or wife.”
“Hmmm.” I pretend a conflicted expression and tap my forefinger on my chin thoughtfully. “I don’t know. Tricky choice. If I remain your captive and you catch me trying to assassinate you again, will I be punished the same way?”
His eyes darken to a forest green. “I will put you over my knee and spank you.”
“Tempting. And if I’m your wife?”
“Ahh.” He rolls us over, pulling me on top of him, grinning. “You’ll just have to find out.”
He drags me down to him, one palm on my back and the other over my lower belly.
“Mine. I never thought you’d be mine, Cleo.” He strokes my stomach with the side of his thumb. “I didn’t dare believe.”
“I love you,” I say, and he groans with satisfaction as he brings me close. His kiss makes my every thought fly.
EPILOGUE
IAN
Four years later
I feel her eyes on me, but I pretend not to. I continue to stir the porridge.
It’s a game we play, my girl and I.
She sneaks up on me. If she kisses me first, she wins. If I kiss her first, I win.
I let her win, most of the time.
Sneaking a look as I reach for a banana, I see she is wearing all black. Again. She loves pink too, as befits a mafia princess, but she’ll always love black I think.
I hear her next steps and in my mind I race with her, me chopping the fruit versus her stalking me.
My heart races as I tip the slices into the pan and spin on my heel, leaning down and brushing the top of her head with my lips just as she grasps my thigh and places a kiss on my knee.
“Ah! I won, Daddy!”
“I think you will find I won!” I protest as I scoop her up and onto my shoulders. She hooks her feet and holds on even as she squeaks at being six feet in the air. Fearless. Just like her mother, our wee bairn Naomi. She’s my pride and joy, and Cleo is all my happiness.
Naomi chunters contentedly as I finish making her breakfast, directing me to put more sugar in her bowl. And I, indulgent parent that I am, pour on another half teaspoonful and whisper, “Don’t tell Mummy.”
“What are you not telling Mummy?” Cleo asks as she walks in. Still stealthy.
