Cary (Henchmen MC Next Generation 5)

He followed with me, slamming deep, and coming with my name on his lips.

“Never get sick of that,” he mumbled a while later, his hands running through my hair.

“Me either. But I’m still going to make you pay for that eventually.”

“Love, I’m fucking looking forward to it,” he told me, making a giggle escape me. “You got anything going on tomorrow?” he asked.

“Ah, nope, not that I can think of. Why?”

“Because I have a surprise for you.”

“What kind of surprise?”

“If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise,” he said, rolling his eyes at me when I pushed up to look down at him. “It’s a good surprise, I promise,” he told me. “But you will have to wear a blindfold,” he warned me, knowing that was the kind of detail I would need ahead of time.

“Ah… okay.”

“Just for a couple minutes,” he assured me.

“Okay,” I agreed, nodding.

I had no reason to be worried.

I trusted him.

Literally with my life.

I could trust him with a blindfolded me if it meant some kind of fun surprise.

“Okay,” he agreed, eyes soft.

Cary - 8 months and 1 day

I knew the blindfold was making her anxious.

In general, surprises put her a little on edge. Which was understandable after all she’d been through.

But I knew this would be worth it.

So many pieces had just fallen into place at once.

First, I was going through some of my old shit, and I found it.

The letter.

And it lined up with a very specific date.

And then I saw the ring.

It was like the universe was pushing me to do it now.

Sure, I could have waited another year for the next anniversary of the day.

But it felt right.

I had no doubts about us.

She hadn’t shown me any either.

It was now or never.

So I got the plan into motion.

I reserved the hotel.

I got the blindfold, with some help from Billie.

“Not too much further,” I assured her, giving her hand a squeeze as we moved through the eerily silent lobby.

I’d reached out to them before and asked them to not spoil the surprise. They’d been all-too-happy to agree. Everyone wanted to be a part of a big, romantic event.

We’d moved into the elevator.

“Don’t be nervous,” I urged, even if my own nerves were a little raw.

I’d never been a nervous person. I didn’t stress about shit.

But if there was one thing a man could worry about, it was the love of his whole damn life turning down a future with him.

“I’m only a little nervous,” she admitted as the doors opened, and we made our way across the hall.

It was the first room we’d stayed in.

Not the one I’d killed Raúl in.

Both were significant to us, but I didn’t think the place I murdered someone in screamed romance.

I slipped the keycard into the door, praying she didn’t know the secret yet.

Pushing the door open, I saw something unexpected.

Hope.

In the middle of spreading pink rose petals—Abigail’s favorite—not only over the bed, but the nightstands and the desk. And that was on top of the dozen or more vases of flowers spread around everywhere. And the bucket of champagne and flutes.

Hope.

The woman who claimed not to believe in love. And yet always found herself wrapped up in everyone else’s love stories.

Her finger rose to her lips as she silently grabbed her keys and tiptoed toward the door.

Thank you I mouthed to her as she passed.

She completely ignored that. And, I imagined, would pretend like she had no part in this big event if I ever brought it up again.

The door closed, prompting me to move Abigail into place as I moved around her.

Reaching into my pocket, I drew out the ring, then got down on my knee.

“Okay, love, take off the blindfold,” I encouraged.

Abigail took a slow, deep breath, then reached up to pull it off.

Her eyes fluttered open a second after the blindfold moved away. And I got to watch the surprise and disbelief as her eyes moved around the hotel room. And then, finally, fell on me.

“It’s November tenth,” I told her. “This is the date of the first letter you sent to me,” I said, watching as her lower lip trembled a little as I flipped open the box. “And this is the ring,” I added as she moved closer to look in the box.

She’d told me once, a year or so into writing, about this ring she’d found at a store, one she talked about with so much longing. Because she knew she wouldn’t be allowed to buy herself something like it.

I imagined the one she saw was fake, but the one I’d come across was genuine. A simple round diamond on a band made of rose gold vines with little pink diamond side stones dotted on the vine like flowers.

“Oh my God,” she hissed, dropping down onto her knees in front of me, both hands reaching toward the box. “How did you…” she started, looking up at me with tears in those gorgeous gray eyes of hers.