This is for me.

  The drums begin low. A pulse. A heartbeat. Then the flames leap to life.

  The fire knife blazes in his hand, and he spins it once, twice—then launches it into the air, catching it with effortless precision. Every movement is deliberate, every arc of fire a sentence in a language I’m still learning but feel down to my bones.

  His body moves like he’s done this a thousand times. His arms slice the air, his feet pound the earth. The fire kisses the sand and climbs the sky again.

  The drumbeat rises, and so does the heat. The sweat slicks his skin, the glow of the flames gilding his back and shoulders. And even through the intensity, even as sparks spin past him and smoke coils in the air—he finds me.

  His eyes lock on mine, and I swear I stop breathing. Because this isn’t just performance. This is an offering. Legacy. Devotion.

  Each movement says something he hasn’t put into words. Each toss of the blade, each crackle of flame, is him telling me this is who I am, and I am yours.

  He throws the blade one last time, higher than before. It arcs, spinning through the sky—and when it falls, he catches it clean, sinking into a low stance as the drums stop all at once.

  Silence.

  The cheers erupt around me, but I’m frozen. My hands pressed to my chest. My throat tight with an awe I can’t name.

  He walks toward me, still breathing hard, eyes blazing, and I meet him halfway.

  “I love you,” I whisper, rising onto my toes to kiss him. “And that was so damn hot.”

  The fire still crackles behind us. And somewhere, deep in my chest, something new and ancient settles into place.

  He didn’t just give me a performance. He gave me his past. His pride. His fire.

  And now it’s mine, too.

  Chapter 27

  Magnolia Sebring

  The sleek white jet waits for us on the tarmac. “Seriously? You won’t tell me?”

  Alex looks at me like he’s keeping the world’s best secret locked behind that smug, gorgeous smirk. “Not yet.”

  He’s wearing gray joggers and a black long-sleeve tee, sleeves pushed up, sunglasses tucked in the neck—annoyingly casual for someone who’s whisking me onto a private chartered plane without giving me a single clue about where we’re going.

  He leans in, his voice brushing against my ear. “The only thing I’m telling you is that we’re both joining the mile-high club on this flight.”

  My stomach flutters. “You should come with a warning label.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who married me,” he says, unremorseful.

  “Tell me this trip doesn’t involve bugs, survival skills, or Naked and Afraid energy.”

  “Only the naked part, the kind that comes with full-body workouts and no safe words. But if we’re being honest, I think you should be a little afraid.” Alex looks down and lifts a brow, nodding toward his groin. “Your friend’s not planning to take any days off.”

  I arch a brow and flick my eyes downward. “Yeah, he’s a real workaholic, isn’t he? Always clocked in and ready for work.”

  Alex chuckles, low and smug. “Can’t help it. He loves his job.”

  “He sure does.”

  Alex’s voice dips, grazing the shell of my ear. “You keep staring at me that way, and he’ll be working late.”

  “Hope he packed electrolytes and a recovery plan—this honeymoon isn’t for the weak.”

  “Oh damn… I have been waiting for this.”

  “Have you now?”

  “Yeah, ever since the night I told you my real name. Favorite, I knew I was going to marry the fuck out of you someday.”

  His laugh rumbles through me, and for a second, I forget we’re standing in front of a jet waiting to take us to some unnamed place.

  I glance toward the sleek chartered plane, and back at him. “You’re not giving me anything? Not even a continent?”

  He grins, shaking his head, so damn pleased with himself, and driving me mad.

  I trust him more than anyone on this earth, but I also prefer being in control. Knowing things. Planning outfits. And he’s denied me all of that in the name of our surprise honeymoon adventure. There’s only one thing I know for certain: based on the size of this jet, the man is about to drag me halfway across the globe. It’s twice the size of the one that shuttled me between Charleston and Dallas. It’s a little over-the-top.

  “I’ll tell you this much. We have four stops,” he says as we climb the steps.

  I stop, glancing back at him. “Four?”

  He grins. “A week at each destination. A month of celebrating us. No schedules. No obligations. Just being together in some very special places.”

  I pause at the top of the stairs, looking back one last time. Goodbye, Samoa… until next time.

  “Don’t be sad, babe. We’ll come back soon.”

  “I know.”

  The jet’s door closes, and he gives me a look that makes every nerve in my body go still and alive at the same time. “You’ve seen my fire. Time to meet my frost.”

  “What does that mean?”

  He tips my chin up so my eyes meet his. “You’ll see soon enough, Mrs. Sebring.”

  You’ve seen my fire. Time to meet my frost.

  Sweden? I think so.

  His hands slide over my hips with practiced ease, sending my pulse into a climb higher than this plane when we take off. And I don’t ask again where we’re headed next. Because it doesn’t matter. I would go anywhere with this man.

  Somewhere near the cockpit, I hear the low voice of the attendant.

  Alex leans in. “I’ll be right back.”

  He approaches the attendant. His voice is too low for me to catch what he says, and his expression is unreadable from this angle. She nods once, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, and disappears behind the curtain.

  He returns, that wicked glint in his eye now dialed all the way up, settling into the seat beside me with that maddening calm he wears too well. He leans in. “I told her to bring our meals sooner rather than later because we will require privacy after we move to the bedroom.”

  I twist in my seat. “There’s a bedroom back there?”

  He grins. “Oh yeah. We’re going to be in the air for a while. The private bedroom is why I picked this jet. I’ll give you a tour later.”

  Right on cue, the pilot’s voice comes over the speaker. “We’ve reached cruising altitude, so you’re free to move about the cabin.”

  I turn back to Alex. “How many hours are we on this plane?”

  “Around twenty in the air plus refueling time.”

  My brows lift. “Mr. Sebring, where in the world are you taking me?”

  He shrugs, pleased with himself. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

  Hours slip by in a quiet haze—laughter low, fingers tangled, the soft hum of engines lulling us into that strange between-time that only happens in the air. We sip drinks, graze on small plates, drift between easy conversation and the kind of silence that feels like belonging.

  Beyond the windows, night eventually arrives. No stars. Only a velvet sky cut by the faint glow of distant cities far below. The sun gone, he takes my hand and brings it to his mouth for a kiss. “Come with me, love.”

  He leads me toward the back where the dim cabin lights give way to a darker, quieter kind of luxury. The space opens into something intimate—a bed dressed in ivory linen pooling around the edges.

  He glances at me with that expression—a quiet command written in the curve of his mouth, the heat in his eyes—and I follow his silent directions.

  The bed is buttery soft beneath me as he eases me down, his movements unhurried but purposeful. Every touch is a promise, every breath a prelude.

  There’s no rush. No urgency—only the steady drum of altitude, the hush of the surrounding cabin, and the sure weight of his body settling over mine.

  He lifts my hoodie—which is his hoodie—and peels it off, letting it fall between us in a soft heap. My tank clings to my skin, thin and useless against the cool cabin air. But I don’t feel the chill––not with his warm hands on me and his mouth is even warmer.

  He presses kisses to the place beneath my jaw, trailing heat down my neck, across my collarbone, to the place where my breath stalls. When his lips find the space over my heart, he lingers there for a moment, and I curl my fingers into his hair.

  When I tug at the hem of his shirt, he pulls back long enough to slip it off. My hands roam over warm skin and familiar ink, tracing the curve of his ribs, the line of muscle that tightens when I graze my thumb across his side.

  “We’re married, Alex.”

  He meets my eyes, his expression soft. “Yes, favorite. We are very married.”

  I told him once that if I ever got married, I wanted to be very married. No halfway, no hesitations. And now, looking at him, hearing those words in his voice… I know it’s come full circle.

  He lowers his body to mine, slowly, until there’s no space left between us. When our bodies finally join, we slip into something that’s always belonged to us.

  Every inch he moves is deliberate, dragging out the ache, the want. And when he presses into me, the rhythm we find is slow and deliberate.

  I touch his cheek, and our eyes stay locked through it. There’s no veil between us. No holding back.

  His hand slides along my side, settling low at my back, holding me to him. And I hold on to him just as tightly.

  When we reach that quiet, breathless peak together, it doesn’t explode. It unfurls. Expands. Washes over us like something sacred.

  We stay that way, unmoving, for a while. Breathing the same air. Letting our hearts settle against each other. My fingers trace the curve of his shoulder, the space between his ribs.

  He shifts enough to press his forehead to mine. And in this moment—thousands of feet above the earth, with nothing but sky around us and a future ahead—his heartbeat is the only compass I need. And it’s pointing me home.

  The hum of the engines and the warmth of his body lull me to sleep, and I curl against him somewhere over the ocean. I don’t know how long I’m out, but I wake to his voice. “Time to wake up. We’re landing soon. You need to bundle up, babe.”

  Bundle up?

  I stretch, rubbing my eyes. “I didn’t pack for cold weather.”

  He grins. “Don’t worry. Violet took care of everything. She packed you a winter boutique.”

  Outside the jet’s small window, the world is a different color—blue-gray skies and whitewashed earth. Thick snow drapes the trees in the distance. The tarmac glistens, slick with frost and morning light. We descend the steps, and my boots crunch the packed snow beneath us while my breath fogs in the air.

  The driver greets us in soft Swedish, and Alex responds in a language I’ve never heard him use before. That’s when I realize this is more than a random place on a map. This is the other part of him.

  “Welcome to Sweden, favorite.”

  The drive from the airport winds through a blur of evergreens and snow-draped hills, the city fading behind us. Everything grows quieter. Peaceful.

  By the time we reach the cabin, my body has no idea what day it is. Somewhere over the Atlantic, I lost track of time—nights and days twisted into one long blur.

  Outside, the sky is turning that deep Scandinavian indigo. A heavy hush blankets the landscape—trees, ground, roof—all tucked under snow. The tires crunch over the frozen drive as we pull up to the cabin.

  But it’s more than a cabin. It’s a glass-topped secret tucked into the woods, with tall black-framed windows. Inside, the floors are heated. I slip off my boots and wiggle my toes, letting the warmth chase the cold from my bones. My breath still fogs near the door, but the rest of me begins to thaw. I pad barefoot across the soft rug while Alex carries our bags.

  Wood waits in the hearth, stacked but unlit. He’s moving first thing—kneeling by it, striking a match. He’s focused and quiet, methodical in a way that tugs at something low in my chest. Watching him this way—his broad back bending so he can work on the fire––I’m reminded of how capable he is.

  And how safe I am with him.

  He turns just as the flames catch, his face lit by flickering gold, his smile softer now. “Come here.”

  I cross the room and he wraps his arms around me. We stay that way for a while, the warmth growing slow and steady as the snow falls above us on the glass ceiling.

  When the fire burns strong and the lights dim to something softer than candlelight, he leads me toward the fur-draped bed tucked against the wall of windows.

  We don’t speak.

  Because we don’t need to.

  After, we stay wrapped around each other, skin to skin, the heat between us slow to fade. My fingers trail along his chest without purpose, just to touch him. There’s no need to fill the silence—we’ve already said everything that matters without words.

  Snow drifts above us like stars we can almost touch. The fire burns low, casting golden light across his chest, and I press my cheek to it, listening to the steady rhythm.

  No words. Just peace.

  Morning comes and, the sky is pale, the snow falling in a way that makes everything appear as though it’s wrapped in soft velvet. Alex doesn’t say much as we drive north—just holds my hand across the center console as we take in the beauty surrounding us.

  The roads narrow as we drive. Houses grow smaller. The world shifts from city crispness to something humbler and quieter. Somewhere along the route, I realize this is more than sightseeing.

  “This was Dad’s church when he was growing up,” Alex says as the car slows in front of a small white chapel with chipped paint, nestled between bare-limbed birches. The steeple leans, but there’s something proud in the way it still stands. “My grandparents were married here. They used to walk to service.”

  “Even in the snow?”

  “Especially in the snow.”

  The air bites when we step out. Our boots crunch over a path, breath fogging as we make our way toward the front steps. Alex’s fingers brush mine, and I take his hand, weaving our gloved fingers together.

  Inside, it’s colder than I expect, but golden light filters through high windows, casting soft halos across the wooden pews. The altar is simple, and the air smells of old stone, candle wax, and a sweetness I can’t place.

  Alex doesn’t explore right away. He stands in the center aisle, looking up at the beams. I rest my head against his shoulder, saying nothing as he takes it in.

  He stands for a moment, rooted in the center aisle of the village church, eyes tracing the weathered wooden beams overhead. It’s a history we’ve never touched, one he rarely speaks of, but there’s something about this place that softens him.

  I slide my arm around his waist, and my heart tightens with a new clarity. This is his legacy, too. Our children will grow up knowing they also belong to this culture and its beautiful heritage.

  “I’m glad I brought you here.”

  “Me too. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

  Alex shifts beside me and glances down just as his stomach lets out a loud, unmistakable growl. “Well, I guess you heard that. Are you ready for breakfast?”

  Not really, but I know that look in his eyes. My man is always hungry. “Sure. What do you have in mind?”

  “I’m taking you somewhere special.”

  The cafe he takes us to is tucked into the side of a small general store. The moment we step through the door, the scent wraps around me—sweet bread, strong coffee, something buttery and warm.

  Behind the counter stands an aging woman, her gray hair wrapped in a cheerful floral scarf, eyes sharp and kind. When she sees Alex, her entire face brightens.

  “Alexander!” She says his name with a heavy Swedish accent and rounds the counter with a hug that’s all backbone and affection. He responds in soft, fluent Swedish, his voice low as he speaks to her.

  I stand back and watch their interaction unfold; this a version of him I’ve never seen before.

  “She refuses to learn English.”

  She turns to me, and her smile deepens. Alex introduces us in Swedish first, then in English. Her name is Britta, and she used to bake cinnamon rolls for his father when he was a boy.

  She kisses the sides of my face and says, “Ahhh… vacker, Alexander.”

  Alex smiles. “Britta says you’re beautiful.”

  Oh, how sweet. “How do I say thank you?”

  “Tack but if you want to show off you can say Tack så mycket. That means thank you very much.”

  Of course I want to show off. “Tack så mycket.”

  She beams and kisses the sides of my face again, saying something else I don’t understand.

  Then she moves to Alex, cupping his cheeks in both hands. She kisses the sides of his face too—twice, quick and warm—before muttering something tender in Swedish.

  Alex laughs under his breath, his hand finding the small of my back. “She tells me I look like Dad,” he says. “She says it every time she sees me, and I always feel like I should correct her, because clearly, I don’t look like Dad.”

  We’re about to have our first disagreement as husband and wife. “You’re wrong, Alex. Just because your coloring and body builds are different doesn’t mean you don’t look like your father. She sees something in you that reminds her of Alexander, and I see it too.”

  His brow wrinkles. “Really?”

  “Yeah, really.”

  “I’ve never seen it.”

  Britta disappears into the back of the cafe and we slide into a small corner booth, the table a little wobbly, the napkins folded into triangles. A few locals linger near the stove, speaking in Swedish.

  She comes back, placing a plate between us—still-warm cinnamon buns, sugar crusted and thick with cardamom—and two mugs of thick hot chocolate that smell like heaven.

  “Tack så mycket, Britta.”

  He slides the plate to me. “Best cinnamon roll you’ll ever eat.”

  I tear off a piece from the center and pop it into my mouth. It’s soft and rich, with the perfect amount of cinnamon, the sugar caramelized just enough to stick to my fingertips. I close my eyes and moan. “Oh my God.” I grab another bite. “Damn, Alex. These are better than Cinnabons.”