His eyes narrowed. “You want a tattoo, and it’s not happening.”
“You have a million, and I can’t have one?”
“Yes.”
With a sigh, I grabbed his hand and ran my finger over the inked raven. “I want this. On my ring finger.”
I thought he liked the idea, but I didn’t stick around to find out. I opened the door and waltzed in. Ronan took over from there. I didn’t have to say a word as he spoke with the tattoo artist and showed him what I wanted. He didn’t threaten the man, but his tone was enough to intimidate the artist into not messing up a single line.
When we walked out of the shop, I flashed my new tattoo at Ronan and asked, “Do you like it?”
His eyes were dark, but his words were soft. “Mne nravitsya.” I love it.
I rose to my toes and kissed him, so in love it felt like I would drown, though I knew he would never let go of my hand. When I pulled back, a glimmer of light in the shadows of Ronan’s eyes was gray. It was only a flicker before it was gone. But it meant everything.
He ran his thumb across my lips. “Ty byla sozdana dlya menya.” You were made for me.
I believed it with everything in me.
“Dazhe ocean ne mog razdelit’ nas,” I breathed beneath the possessive pressure of his thumb on my lips. Even the sea couldn’t keep us apart.
He smiled. “Not even hell, kotyonok.”
That night, I got married in Paris with a raven on my finger. Though, in my heart, I knew this man had never been my Nevermore.
He was my forever.
THE END
PREVIEW OF THE VINTAGE CLUB
CHAPTER ONE
Rain drizzled as I stood in front of a two-story brick building and stared at the nondescript logo on the crimson door: a lapel pin in the shape of a V. It was the fine print below that made my palms itch.
I’d assumed The Vintage Club was a country club; that the most I’d have to deal with was the overeager attention of a frat boy wearing pink shorts and loafers.
Luck and I, however, had never been on good terms.
A rumble of thunder rolling across Chicago’s smoggy nighttime sky was my only warning before rain poured like a tipped-over bucket of water that splattered on my head and soaked my clothes. I sucked in a breath at the wet and ominous assault, and with a growl of resignation, I yanked open the door that read, “Gentlemen’s Club.”
I wasn’t a prude on principle. I just disliked strippers. They reminded me of my mother.
The door fell shut behind me, muffling the torrent of rain outside. Wet and tired, the toll of the day pulled on my muscles. None of the bus routes came to this part of the city, so I’d been dropped off twelve blocks from here. Chicago’s elite must have an aversion to public transportation and compassion.
The entire entryway glittered: the tear-drop chandelier, crystal vases with real lilies, and a few ornamental mirrors. Even the glass desk sparkled as if it’d been carved from diamond.
I took it all in like Alice did Wonderland. Most of the clients I delivered packages to were wealthy, but this place took loaded to another level.
The strippers probably sweat gold.
I pulled my attention from the décor to an Alfred-looking receptionist who stood behind the desk, dressed in a black suit with coattails.
Cool eyes flickered with mounting displeasure as they swept from my messy ponytail, to the Angelo’s T-shirt and jeans I wore to work, to the chucks on my feet, and finally, to the puddle I’d dripped onto the iridescent marble floor.
“We’re not hiring,” he said shortly before averting his attention back to the paperwork on his desk.
An ironic breath escaped me. “Trust me, this would be the last place I’d ever apply.”
He didn’t look convinced.
I stepped closer and, unable to resist the temptation, I moved to run my hand across the sparkly desktop as if it was an expensive car. Before I could touch it, Alfred’s eyes hardened, embodying the stuffy owner who warned to not touch his Maserati.
With an impish look, I did it anyway.
He stacked his papers more aggressively than necessary. What was that? An NDA? Before I could see any more of the corrupt workings of this place, Alfred shoved the paperwork into a folder