Page 38 of Ruthless Enforcer

Three miles south of a decommissioned logging spur outside Tillamook, the asphalt dissolves into packed crushed rock, winding through ancient spruce trees dripping with moss and sea mist. Below the ridge, the Pacific is a churning cauldron of lead and froth, slamming into towering black basalt stacks with enough force to vibrate the chassis of Luke’s truck. Rain whips sideways against the windshield, blurring the line where the gray sky bleeds into the violent water.

I kill the engine in front of the house.

It’s not a concrete bunker or an ostentatious glass palace. It’s a low-slung, weathered cedar-and-river-stone cabin built right into the cliffside, sheltered by a stand of hemlocks. No security cameras visible from the dirt drive—everything is buried in the tree line, wired to private thermal relays.

Completely private.

I grab our duffels from the back, keep one hand hovering at Clara’s lower back as the gale tries to tear my overcoat from her body. She slips in her museum night Louboutins but I hold her steady as we hurry to the entrance. I punch the five-digit cipher into the heavy timber door, open it, and toss our bags inside.

She starts to go in.

I catch her arm. “Not so fast, Duchess.”

Before she can say anything, I swing her into my arms and carry her over the threshold. This may be a fake wedding, but that doesn’t mean we have to be sloppy.

She fits against me far too fucking well, one arm slipping around my neck as if she belongs there. Warm. Soft. Trusting me to hold her. Every possessive instinct I’ve been wrestling with all day bares its teeth.

Clara looks up at me, startled at first. Then her expression softens into something that hits me harder than it should. “You carried me over the threshold.”

“Don’t get sentimental, Duchess.”

Her arm tightens around my neck. “Too late.”

Setting her down, I close the door, and the violent roar of the storm drops to a deep, resonant rumble against three-inch double-paned storm glass.

Clara stops in the middle of the room, slipping out of my coat as she looks around. The ivory crepe of her dress skims every curve without trying, elegant and understated and somehow sexier than a wedding dress should be. Damp auburn hair spills around her shoulders, water droplets catching in it like diamonds.

She looks like a bride. My bride.

She sets my coat on the couch and then leans down to pull her shoes off. Her emerald eyes sweep across the timber beams, the low lighting, the vast wall of glass framing the storm outside, while I stand there having the deeply inconvenient realization that I may never get the sight of Clara Whitlock wearing my ring and that wedding dress out of my fucking head.

"Your bedroom is down the hall on the right." I crouch by the cast-iron stove, striking a long match and feeding kindling into the dry embers until a bright, crackling gold flame catches. "Clean sheets, private bath. There’s a cedar hot tub that looks out over the cove, on the deck."

She turns to look at me, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the stone hearth. The heavy platinum ring on her left hand catches the newborn firelight. "And your room?"

"Across the hall." I stand up, brushing wood shavings from my palms, and let my eyes hold hers. The chemistry in the room is thick enough to choke on, simmering right under the surface of our damp clothes and rushed vows.

I take two slow steps toward her, stepping inside that dangerous perimeter where her almond-and-skin scent messes with my concentration. "Time for the ground rules, wife."

Her chin lifts a fraction. "I'm listening."

"This is an alliance, not a romance." I put my hands in my pockets to keep from temptation.

"Understood."

“This house is an operational safe zone, not a honeymoon suite. Separate beds, separate rooms. No midnight visits, no wandering through my door in whatever you decide to sleep in. We don't touch." A faint, wicked curve touches my lips despite the razor-wire tension in my chest. "Because if we start, Duchess, neither of us has the discipline to stop, and I have a job to finish."

Her green eyes flash with amusement. "I appreciate the concern for your own self-control."

"Second," I continue smoothly, ignoring the hit. "No unvetted devices. No calling James, no checking bank accounts, no stepping foot past the tree line without me. If Turner's people pick up an electronic ping within fifty miles of this ridge, I lose the advantage."

"And the expiration date on this alliance?"

"Cole Turner goes in the ground and any network he’s tapped into gets dismantled. You get your safety back, your family back, and whatever legal dissolution you want." I hold her gaze. "Until then, you're Mrs. Gabriel Reyes."

Something flickers across her face at the name, there and gone too quickly for me to identify.

She doesn't pout. She doesn't argue. She simply absorbs the parameters like a seasoned strategist reviewing battle lines. "One problem," she says calmly.