Mine to Keep (Mine 2)

Thanks to Weston.

And I’ll repay that debt…

Even if it was the last fucking thing he did.

Chapter Two

The limo pulled to a slow stop in front of the Chicago high-rise. The building stretched so far up that it seemed to blend with the clouds.

Skye glanced at Trace. “You just assumed we’d be going back to your place?”

He put down the papers he’d been reading. Some thick manila file. His gaze locked on her. “I want you to move in with me.”

She tried to keep her face expressionless. “And this is how you ask me? We were on a white sand beach for days, and you couldn’t find some nice, romantic moment there to—”

“I suck at romance, Skye.” He heaved out a hard breath and reached for her hand. His fingers smoothed over the big, gleaming diamond that she wore on her left hand. His ring.

He’d asked her to marry him after he’d saved her from Mitch. He’d never said they would move in together before they got married.

“Skye, look, we probably only have ten seconds before Reese opens that door and—”

They had less than five seconds. There was a soft click of sound, and Reese opened the door.

“His timing is shit,” Trace muttered, sounding disgusted.

Skye climbed from the car. Reese was frowning at her, more than a hint of concern on his face. Reese’s face was just as hard as Trace’s—maybe even harder. All angles and rough planes. Reese’s hair was cut brutally short, and his dark eyes glinted. “Is there a problem?”

Skye looked up at the high-rise once more. Trace’s penthouse waited all the way at the very top.

He’d sure come a long way in the last ten years. Once, they’d both barely had enough money for food. For clothes.

Now, it seemed that Trace could buy the whole world.

Is he trying to buy me? Sometimes she wondered if that could be the case. She was highly conscious of the weight of her ring around her finger.

“Have the doorman get the bags, Reese,” Trace directed as he exited the vehicle.

But Skye put her hand out, stopping Reese. “Not yet.” Because their living arrangements weren’t settled. She straightened her shoulders. There was something about this city that got to Skye. Chicago was home for her. The noise. The people. The activity.

She was starting to feel stronger already.

“Skye…”

She turned to face Trace. “Why?”

He blinked at her. “Why what?”

Skye sighed. “Why do you want me to move in with you?”

“Aw, hell,” she heard Reese mutter as the faint Alabama drawl in his voice deepened. “He’s right. Shit for timing…” He edged back.

Trace growled.

Skye didn’t move.

“Here?” Trace demanded as his brows shot up. “Now? This is where you want us to talk?”

Cars honked around them.

“You picked the place,” she pointed out. “Now tell me why.”

Trace was tall, easily hitting over six foot three, and his body seemed to dominate hers as he curled his hands over her arms. “Because I want you close. Always, right beside me.”

And that was where she wanted to be. His answer was also the one that she’d needed to hear.

“Then you can have my things brought over,” she told him as she turned away and headed for the building’s gleaming entrance. The doorman hurried to meet her.

“I already did,” Trace said. His words followed her.

Froze her.

Skye glanced back at him. “Confident, were you?”

His head tilted as he seemed to assess her. Then, taking his time, Trace headed toward her. His hand lifted, and his fingers slid over her cheek. “When it comes to you,” his voice dropped. “Yeah, I am. Because you were either going to spend the night with me, or I was going to move in with you in that little apartment over your dance studio. Either way, we were going to be sleeping in the same bed tonight.”

Blunt, wasn’t he? But, that was Trace. Dominant, fierce. Always in control. Always—

“Weston!”

Trace moved in a flash at that shout. He caught Skye and pushed her behind him. She saw Reese moving quickly, too. Reese had a gun in his hand in less than two seconds’ time, and he lunged toward Trace.

No, not toward Trace. Toward the man who was rushing down the street and heading straight for Trace.

“Weston!” The guy cried out again.

His hair was long, brushing his shoulders, disheveled, and a dark beard lined his jaw. The man was tall, with broad shoulders. He ran toward them, his gaze intent on Trace.

“Ben,” she heard Trace growl.

Reese lifted his weapon. “You need to stop right there, Sharpe.”

The guy staggered to a stop. His jeans were dirty, torn. His shirt was black and ripped at the side. He ignored Reese and the weapon Reese had pointed at him. The man’s eyes focused on Trace with a feverish intensity. “I owe you,” he mumbled, shaking his head. “I’m here to pay.”

Skye’s heart raced in her chest.

“Reese,” Trace’s voice snapped out, “I want you to take Skye inside.”

The doorman peeked out at them, eyes wide. Henry. Skye had met him a few times before Trace had whisked her to the Keys. Henry was a nice guy, but totally not equipped to deal with the situation out there.

“Take her inside and stay with her every moment,” Trace ordered.