Sonata (North Security 3)

“I love you.”

“How can you be so sure I’m wounded?”

He’s always been this way, stoic so other predators wouldn’t sense his weakness, hiding a mortal wound beneath layers of muscle and fur and willpower. “Haven’t you ever wondered why you’re so determined to protect me? It wasn’t only because of responsibility or guilt. Not even only because of love. You were determined to protect me from the same hell you experienced.”

“I thought I deserved it,” he says, his voice breaking. “Even my brothers, even when I stood up for them, it seemed like we belonged in hell. Only when I saw you did I understand the horror of it. Only then did I know I’d die before letting you feel pain.”

Breath expands my lungs. I’m bursting with gratitude and affection. And love. “There’s no such thing as life without pain. It would mean there’s no pleasure, either. You were Don Quixote, tilting at the windmills of an unattainable ideal. Complete happiness.”

“Do you think I’ll apologize for that? I’ll drag heaven down for you.”

Of course he would. He already has. It’s not the brilliant blue water or the fine-grained white sand that makes paradise. It’s the deep green of his eyes. I can drag heaven down for him, too, once we’re alone. I know how. There’s more to learn, but he lets me explore his body—and he doesn’t hide his reactions. I can hear every intake of breath and every groan. At least until three days ago. “Forget the flowers. Forget the cake. Let’s go back to the room.”

A muscle works in his jaw. Restraint. “Not until we’re married.”

He offers his arm. There’s a wealth of meaning in that one gesture—the promise of protection, of loyalty. The promise of forever. I rest my hand on his forearm, feeling the solidity of him, the warmth.

We walk down the beach in a

straight line. It’s a route not marked on any map. It’s a path we make together, the notes written on the sand beneath our feet, the flourish added with the wind-whipped silk hem of my dress.

Liam walks me down the coastal aisle like a father would his daughter. Even his hand that rests on mine, holding me in place, reassuring me, carries the weight of guardianship. Only when we reach the end does he turn to face me. We stand both equal and opposite, a note and its counterpoint—a man and a woman claiming our place side by side.

* * *

Thank you for reading SONATA! I hope you absolutely loved Liam and Samantha’s emotional and scorching story. You can read Josh and Bethany’s emotional and incredibly sexy story… One click AUDITION right now!

And now the third and final North brother, Elijah, has a book…

I’m stepping off a nine-hour flight when it happens. A white van. A dark hood. Every woman’s worst nightmare. Now I’m trapped in an abandoned church. The man who took me says I won’t be hurt. The man in the cell next to me says that’s a lie. I’ll fight with every ounce of strength, but there are secrets in these walls. I’ll need every single one of them to survive.

READ DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH NOW >

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Excerpt from DIAMOND IN THE ROUGH

The airport feels sleepy, heavy shades drooping over dark windows. Workers push large floor cleaners across a floor that’s lost its gloss. Every other restaurant has bars over its entrance. Closed. Good thing I’m not hungry.

It’s four a.m. The embassy opens in a few hours.

A lone suitcase circles the conveyor belt. A family with two children appear with a large stuffed elephant that probably needed its own seat. A selection of individual men and women, probably business travelers. A couple who are leaning on each other. Honeymoon? We’re all too exhausted to do anything more than stare straight ahead.

The man from the plane doesn’t show up. Charles Bisset. I don’t know whether I’m disappointed not to see him again. He would have made small talk, and I hate small talk.

Except when it’s with handsome strangers, apparently.

Then even talking about the weather would make a little fire pitch inside my stomach.

He probably only brought a carry on. Except he hadn’t pulled one down from the overhead bins. He’d only had a leather briefcase. Strange, even for someone traveling light.

A loud buzzing sound heralds the arrival of our luggage. They slide down the chute, stacking on each other in clumps like a poorly played game of Tetris. After a full revolution of the carousel, my purple bag appears. I grasp it and pull, almost falling backwards.

Signs lead the way through customs and border control. I’m snapped at in rapid French for not checking the right box on the form. And then I’m finally free to find the exit. A big blue sign proclaims TAXI. I pull my luggage along the rubbery floor, eager for a breath of fresh air. A block of exhaust envelopes me. The crowd of people shout and wave their arms, a stark contrast to the languor inside the airport. These aren’t travelers. That registers first. They don’t have luggage. They’re wearing jackets and holding signs. Protestors. Something about Uber. A row of yellow and black taxis don’t appear to be moving. A group of men surround a black Escalade, pushing, pushing, and I let out a shriek that no one hears. A window breaks, and they cheer.