Page 47 of Forged

“I’ll be ready in about fifteen,” I answer.

Years of moving have taught me efficiency, clothes folded, laptop secured, my vibrator in the side pocket. There’s an unopened box of condoms still there. I laugh when I turn it over in my hand and a hazy memory of Lars insisting that we no longer use condoms last night rises in my mind.

“Guess I won’t need these,” I mutter before throwing the box in the trash bin.

I head to the bathroom and pack all my toiletries. I place the last of my shoes in the zippered compartment of my suitcase andtake one last scan of the room. I pause and catch my reflection in the mirror. I can’t help but notice the ring on my finger. All the events of the past twenty-four hours are setting in as the leftover alcohol of my hangover has worn off.

I roll my suitcase out to the main room and Lars rises and takes the handle.

“Ready, Bella?”

“I think so,” I answer.

He pauses, his hand leaving my suitcase and gripping my jaw. “Are you sure you’re okay with this? This is your last chance. Once I bring you into my home, you’re mine, Neomi.”

I clasp his wrist, grounding myself in him. “I’m yours, Lars.”

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale. “Jesus, Bella.” His mouth curves. “If we had more time, I’d put you back on that bed and fuck you.”

He kisses me—deep, possessive, and unhurried—and I melt like I always do. When he pulls back, his voice is rough.

“Let’s go before I actually do it.”

We stop at the front desk on the way out. One hand rests lightly on my back while the other settles the bill. He doesn’t glance at the total. Just closes the account and tucks his card back in his wallet.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say once we’re on the sidewalk.

“Bella, one thing you’ll learn is that my family’s business is very profitable. You’ll pay for nothing, want for nothing, as long as you’re mine.”

“I have my own money, Lars. I don’t need to be some kept mob wife.”

He laughs softly, leaning down to kiss my hair. “I know. And I love that about you. You’ll adjust, though.”

When we stepinto his condo, I stop just inside the door.

It’s immaculate and expensive. The space smells likehim—soap, spice, something darker underneath—but it feels oddly untouched.

Lars rolls in my suitcase, turning to me. “This is just a temporary spot for me, so don’t judge the aesthetic. My penthouse in Chicago is much more comfortable.”

He takes my bag down the hall, then reappears a moment later.

“Are you hungry?”

“Always,” I say. “But I should warn you, I’ve been living on hotel room service and airport snacks. My expectations are tragically low.”

“Good,” he replies. “Then it’ll be easy to impress you.”

He disappears into the kitchen, and I follow, leaning against the counter as he moves with easy familiarity—opening drawers without thinking, pulling ingredients from the fridge. He reaches for something in the pantry and comes back holding an apron.

I blink. Then laugh. “Oh. Oh, wow.”

He pauses, his eyebrow lifting. “What?”

“You cook,” I say slowly, watching as he ties the apron around his waist. “And you own an apron.”

“I don’t order takeout,” he says. “It’s a waste of money and usually disappointing. And I like to keep my clothes clean.”

“Lars.” I grin. “This is deeply attractive information.”