My hand flew toward his face again, but this time he caught my wrist.

  "There are easier ways to hurt me, spitfire," he said, his voice low and rough. "Ways that don't involve you hurting yourself."

  I swung with my other hand, but he was ready for that too. In one fluid motion, he spun us around, backing me against the wall and pinning both my wrists above my head with one hand.

  I glared up at him, breathing hard from exertion and fury. "I hate you."

  "No, you don't." His free hand came up to cup my face, thumb stroking across my cheekbone. "But even if you did, you've hated me before. I'll just win you back again."

  "You arrogant piece of⁠—"

  He cut me off with his mouth, crushing his lips to mine with six weeks of desperation and need. I bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and he groaned like I'd given him a gift.

  "I missed the taste of you," he breathed against my mouth, his tongue sweeping inside to claim me. "Missed the way you bite me when you're pissed."

  I wanted to keep fighting, wanted to stay angry, but his free hand was already sliding under my shirt, skilled fingers skimming across skin that hadn't been touched—really touched—in six weeks.

  "I hate that you're alive," I gasped between kisses, but my hips were already rolling against him, seeking friction. "I hate that you made me⁠—"

  "I know." His mouth moved to my throat, teeth scraping against my pulse point. "But your body knows exactly who I am, doesn't it, spitfire?"

  I could feel him hard against my stomach, thick and demanding, and my body responded with a rush of wetness that made me curse under my breath.

  "I should make you beg," I said, but my voice came out breathless and wanting.

  "I will." He released my wrists to yank my shirt over my head, his eyes going dark as he took in my bare breasts. "I'll beg for as long as you want me to."

  My hands went straight to his belt, working at the buckle with shaking fingers. "This doesn't mean I forgive you."

  "I know." His thumbs brushed over my nipples, making me arch into his touch. "But I'm going to fuck you until you remember why you married me anyway."

  The rough promise in his voice sent heat straight to my core. I got his belt undone, his pants open, and wrapped my hand around his cock. He was already leaking, thick and hot in my palm.

  "Fuck," he hissed, his hips bucking into my grip. "Morgan⁠—"

  "You want me to forgive you?" I stroked him slowly, watching his face contort with need. "Then make me forget why I was angry."

  He lifted me easily, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed me back against the wall. The rough brick scraped against my bare back, but I didn't care. All I cared about was the weight of him between my thighs, the promise of being filled again after six weeks of emptiness.

  "Tell me you want this," he said, the head of his cock sliding through my wetness, making us both shudder. "Tell me you want me."

  "I hate that I want you," I breathed, my nails digging into his shoulders. "I hate that I need—oh God⁠—"

  He pushed into me slowly, stretching me open inch by thick inch until we were both gasping with the intensity of it. Six weeks apart had made everything more sensitive, more desperate.

  "So fucking tight," he groaned against my throat. "Like you were made for me."

  "Move," I demanded, my heels digging into his ass. "Lance, please, I need⁠—"

  He pulled out almost completely before slamming back in, hitting that spot that made stars explode behind my eyelids. I cried out, my head falling back against the wall.

  "Is this what you need?" he asked, setting a brutal pace that had me clawing at his back. "My cock inside you? Reminding you who you belong to?"

  "Yes," I sobbed, beyond caring about pride or anger or anything except the feeling of him claiming me. "Yes, fuck, don't stop⁠—"

  He shifted the angle, grinding against my clit with every thrust, and I felt my orgasm building like a wildfire in my veins.

  "Come for me," he ordered, his voice rough with his own need. "Show me how much you missed this cock."

  The dirty words combined with the perfect friction sent me over the edge. I came with a scream that echoed through the apartment, my pussy clenching around him so hard he cursed and buried his face in my neck.

  "That's my girl," he murmured, not slowing his pace even as I shuddered through the aftershocks. "Now give me another one."

  "I can't—" But he was already working me toward another peak, his thumb finding my clit and circling with practiced precision.

  "You can." His teeth scraped against my collarbone. "You're going to come on my cock until you remember exactly who you belong to."

  And I did. Again and again until I was boneless and shaking and completely wrecked in his arms. Only then did he let himself go, spilling inside me with a groan that sounded like my name and a prayer all at once.

  We slid down the wall together, both of us breathing hard and still connected.

  "I'm still mad at you," I said against his shoulder, but my voice was soft now, sated.

  "I know." His arms tightened around me, and I could feel him smile against my hair. "But you're not leaving me."

  "No," I admitted. "I'm not leaving you. But you're going to spend the rest of your life making this up to me."

  "Starting now," he said, and I could feel him hardening inside me again. "Let me show you how sorry I am."

  Thirteen

  Morgan

  I woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of Lance humming in the kitchen.

  For a blissful moment, muscle memory took over. This was normal. This was how mornings used to be—me naked in his bed, him already up making coffee, the familiar domestic rhythm we'd built over two years of marriage.

  Then reality crashed over me like ice water.

  He was supposed to be dead.

  I’d shot his brother last night.

  Your husband has been lying to you for six weeks while you thought you were losing your mind.

  I sat up carefully, the sheet falling to my waist, and took inventory. Naked. Check. Thoroughly fucked. Double check. Sore in all the right places from a night of desperate, angry, relief-fueled sex.

  And confused as hell about what happens next.

  "You're awake." Lance appeared in the doorway with two mugs, wearing nothing but boxers and a cautious smile.

  God, he's beautiful.

  Even after everything, even with all the lies and betrayal, my traitorous body responded to the sight of him. The familiar lines of muscle and scar tissue, the way he moved with fluid grace, even carrying coffee mugs.

  Six weeks of thinking you'd never see this again.

  "Hot chocolate for my, Spitfire," he said, setting both mugs on the nightstand. "I managed to find mini marshmallows in the back of the pantry. I was surprised. I figured the whole place would be packed up by now."

  “Well, I kept thinking I’d be well enough to come back, but I haven’t managed it yet.”

  He winced from the well-placed barb. But I didn’t apologize. After all, it was the truth.

  I accepted the mug gratefully, wrapping the sheet around myself with my free hand. The gesture felt ridiculous—he'd seen every inch of me last night, mapped it with his hands and mouth until I'd forgotten why I was angry—but I needed some kind of armor for this conversation.

  The conversation where he explains six weeks of psychological torture.

  "How's Hector?" I asked, because it seemed like the safest place to start.

  "Grumpy but alive. Micah patched him up." Lance settled on the edge of the bed, careful not to crowd me. "He says to tell you it was a good shot. Clean graze, minimal damage."

  At least someone appreciates my marksmanship.

  "To be fair, I thought someone might be coming to finish the killing me job."

  "I know." His voice was quiet, accepting. "I’m proud of you."

  Somehow his words made me want to shoot something again. But even thinking it, I knew it wasn't entirely true. Angry as I was, betrayed as I felt, seeing him alive was more important than every sleepless night I'd endured.

  Didn’t mean I was going to make this easy for him.

  "So," I said, taking a sip of hot chocolate that was exactly how liked it. "Six weeks. Start talking."

  Lance ran a hand through his hair, and I could see him organizing his thoughts, choosing what to tell me first.

  Don't you dare edit this. I want the whole truth.

  "The car bomb was meant to kill you, as I think you know," he began. "Grandfather's people. Professional job. I only survived because I remote started before I got to the car and I was standing twenty feet away when it exploded."

  Twenty feet. The difference between dead and alive.

  "The blast threw me. According to Hector I had a severe concussion, internal bleeding, three broken ribs. And I was in a coma for two weeks."

  I thought about the funeral, about standing graveside in black while he was unconscious in some hospital bed. The flowers, the eulogies, the sympathy cards I'd burned because I couldn't stand reading them.

  All of it a lie.

  "When I woke up," Lance continued, "Hector was there. He told me what had happened, how the explosion had been so severe that everyone assumed I was dead. No body to identify, just fragments. He also broke into the medical examiner’s office and made sure my dental records showed as the body identified. Originally he’d been there to save you. He’d been prepared to warn us."

  Fragments. Right.

  "He convinced me that staying dead was the safest option. That if grandfather thought he'd succeeded; he'd leave you alone."

  I couldn’t keep the anger out of my tone. “And did he leave me alone? All this for my safety. Am I in fact, safe?”

  Lance's jaw tightened. "No. We didn't know that until recently. We thought you were safe."

  Safe. That word again.

  "So you've been doing what, exactly? Hiding out while I grieved?"

  "I have been healing and investigating." His voice took on a harder edge. "Trying to find evidence that would take grandfather down permanently."

  Evidence.

  My heart leaped. "What kind of evidence?"

  Lance was quiet for a long moment, staring into his coffee like it held answers.

  "Our mother didn't die in a random accident," he said finally. "She was killed because she found something on grandfather. Evidence of operations that went beyond the normal family business."

  Your mother. The car accident when you were teenagers.

  I remembered him telling me about it early in our relationship—how she'd been killed in what police claimed was an accident and robbery gone wrong. How he'd never believed the official story.

  Turns out you were right not to believe it.

  "What kind of operations?"

  "Human trafficking. Weapons dealing. Things that would put him away for life if we could prove it." Lance looked at me directly. "She'd been gathering evidence for months, planning to turn it over to the authorities."

  And got killed for it.

  "The man who was convicted—Francois Pernaut—he wasn't the real killer. He was just there, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Grandfather's people killed her, and he took the fall."

  Jesus.

  "How do you know this?"

  "Because Hector found him. He's been in a prison in Marseille for fifteen years, keeping quiet. But he's dying now—cancer. He wants to make amends before he goes."

  Make amends by telling the truth.

  "He told Hector about something called the Monserrat file. Evidence our mother gathered and hid before she was killed."

  Evidence that could destroy your grandfather.

  "Have you found it?"

  Lance shook his head. "We think it's in the files from the gala—the ones Team Pendragon downloaded. But Gwen's security is..." He trailed off.

  Impenetrable. Right.

  "So you've been what, trying to hack Gwen's system?"

  "Trying to figure out how to ask for help without revealing that I'm alive." Lance set down his coffee, reaching for my free hand. "Every day I wanted to come home to you. Every day, I had to choose between protecting you and being with you."

  And you chose protecting me.

  His fingers interlaced with mine, warm and familiar and real.

  He's really here. This is really happening.

  "Morgan—"

  "Don't. Just... don't. Not yet."

  My fingers traced the line of his jaw, tentative at first, then firmer. I tried to map the planes of his face, trying to confirm to myself that I wasn’t dreaming.

  "I thought I was going crazy," I whispered. "These past few weeks, I kept feeling like... like you were still here somehow. Everyone said it was grief, but I knew⁠—"

  "You weren't crazy." He caught my hand and pressed it flat against his chest where his heart was doing its best impression of a jackhammer. "You were right. I was here."

  My eyes widened. "You were watching me."

  He licked his lips. "I couldn’t stay away. I tried. I really did, but I couldn’t watch you waste away."

  "And the dreams?" I asked quietly.

  "I wasn’t sure how much you’d remember.” His voice was rough.

  Those dreams had been the only time I'd felt anything other than crushing sadness. The only time my body had felt alive instead of just functional.

  "You should have told me."

  "I should have done a lot of things differently." He lifted my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to my knuckles. "I'm sorry, Spitfire. I'm sorry for all of it."

  Spitfire.

  The endearment still hit me right in the chest, still made me want to melt despite everything.

  Don't let him off the hook that easily.

  "Sorry doesn't fix six weeks of psychological torture."

  "No, it doesn't." He met my eyes. "But I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if you'll let me."

  The rest of his life.

  The same promise he'd made last night, when I'd been pointing a gun at him.

  When you wanted to shoot him and fuck him and never let him out of your sight ever again.

  "What about grandfather? What about the investigation?"

  "We keep looking for the Monserrat file. We build a case. We take him down legally."

  And in the meantime?

  "In the meantime, I stay dead."

  Stay dead.

  The words hung between us like a death sentence.

  "For how long?"

  "However long it takes."

  Months. Maybe years.

  I pulled my hand free, suddenly needing space to think.

  This isn't just about forgiveness. This is about living a lie.

  "Morgan, what is it?"

  "I have to go back to Atticus and Gwen and pretend this never happened," I said, the realization hitting me like a freight train. "I have to lie to them."

  "They can't know. Not yet." Lance's voice was careful, controlled. "If grandfather suspects I'm alive---"

  "Then what? He kills me? He kills them? When does this end?"

  When do I get to have my life back?

  "When we have evidence. When we can put him away permanently."

  And if that never happens?

  "What if you can't find the file? What if this Monserrat thing is just another dead end?"

  Lance was quiet for a long moment.

  "Then we figure out another way."

  Another way that keeps you dead and me lying to everyone I care about.

  I stood up, wrapping the sheet around myself like armor, and walked to the window. The city sprawled below us, millions of people living their normal lives, unaware that my entire world had shifted overnight.

  Last night you were a widow. This morning you're... what?

  The secret wife of a dead man.

  "I need to think," I said without turning around.

  "Morgan—"

  "No, Lance. I need to process this. All of it." I faced him, trying to look calmer than I felt. "Six weeks ago, you made a decision about my life without consulting me. You're doing it again."

  Deciding that I should lie to my family. Deciding that I should keep living this half-life.

  “I didn’t really have a choice. I was busy fighting for my life. The moment I recovered, I came for you. It's not the same⁠—"

  "Isn't it? You're asking me to choose between being with you and being honest with the people I love. You're asking me to live a lie."

  To be complicit in the deception.

  Lance stood up, moving toward me with his hands raised like I was a skittish animal.

  "I'm asking you to help me stay alive long enough to end this."

  By sacrificing everything else.

  "And what if I can't?"

  What if I can't be the widow and the wife at the same time?

  "Then we'll figure something else out."

  Will we?

  I wanted to believe him. Wanted to trust that there was a solution that didn't require me to live in limbo indefinitely.

  But wanting something doesn't make it possible.

  "I need to go back," I said finally. "They'll be expecting me for breakfast. If I'm not there, Atticus will send a search party."

  Back to pretending. Back to being the grieving widow instead of the relieved wife.

  "I know." Lance moved closer, close enough to touch if I let him. "But tonight⁠—"

  "Tonight I'm staying at the penthouse. I need time to think."

  Time to figure out how to live with this.

  He looked like I'd slapped him, hurt and disappointment flashing across his features.

  "Morgan, please. I know this is complicated, but⁠—"

  "Complicated?" I laughed again, sharper this time. "Lance, complicated is figuring out logistics for a family Christmas trip. This is fucking impossible."

  This is choosing between love and honesty, between you and everyone else I care about.

  "I love you," he said simply. "That's not complicated."

  No. But everything else is.