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The weird fluttering feeling low in my stomach—that I’m starting to learn is in fact metaphorical butterflies—happens again. I know this because I googled it to make sure there wasn’t anything medically wrong with me. “Actually, she’s stalking me.”
“Because I chose to protect you over family—the previous most important thing to me—the Bratva will now be after you. They think I took someone precious from them, and now they will try to take someone precious from me.” “So, what now? I’m just going to be locked up in here with you like some princess in a tower.” “No, baby. You’re a queen.”
“We’re endgame, baby, and if you don’t see that, you better put that bullet in my head right now because I’m gonna ruin all other men for you when I worship every inch of your body.”
“You belong to me as surely as the heart that beats in this chest belongs to me.”
“You’re mine, Harlow. My woman, my property, my queen, my fucking whore, if I so choose.” I glance down to my phone and remotely turn on music through the club’s speakers. It’s a slow, soulful song. “Now that that’s settled, dance with me.”1 “You’re fucking insane,” she mutters while rolling her eyes. I smirk. “Better get used to it, baby.”
