Damn him.

Damn him, anyway.

I’ve only heard of this kind of sorrow before. To be honest, I thought it didn’t really exist. What kind of heartbreak dives so deep into a person they can’t even shed tears because of it? Anything a person spends life on is worth spending grief on too, right? And that means tears, right?

But the hours after he leaves become a day.

That day becomes two.

Then three.

And every day, the grief comes back. I hope, of course, that because there are no tears, it didn’t mean as much to me as I’d originally thought. That he didn’t mean as much.

At times, I come close to believing that. Like when work gets busy, despite Wade and Fershan treating the floor three feet around me like holy ground. Or in those magical moments when I’m lost in a good book, or even when something interesting on the train distracts me, yanking me out of the solitude known as my heart.

In those tiny and treasured moments, I start to think everything is normal again—just before it all returns. The memories. The aching. The loss, in places so far and awful inside me, no food will stay down, thought will stay planted, or feeling will take root. The limbo of this damn darkness. The pain still so deep, I even start to hope for the tears now. Any sign the sorrow will turn to healing soon.

On that “cheerful” thought, I pack up the last of my snacks and water bottle for work, tuck them into my shoulder satchel, and set off from the apartment to catch the three p.m. train.

While walking down the two flights of stairs to the courtyard, I think about the new day-shift slots that have recently opened in the office. I revisit the idea of requesting to take one of them, just for a little while.

Maybe more than a little while.

It’s a temporary fix, but maybe that’s what I need to escape the Reece-themed slap I endure every night at the Brocade. Neeta was actually the one who mentioned the new shifts, sensing my struggles and perhaps even guessing Reece is the root of the problem.

But would I just be replacing one Pandora’s box with another? Right now, at night, I only have to deal with memories of him. What will I do if I’m actually forced to see him, which is much more a possibility during standard business hours?

Especially because I know how he’s been spending his evenings lately.

Oh, yes. Bolt sightings are on the rise again. The whole city couldn’t be more ecstatic.

Goodie for the city.

On that morose thought, I plunk to the bottom of the stairs. Once there, I stop and give those ruminations an open huff. “And here she is, folks. The most depressed girl in the world’s safest city. Give it up for…Emmalina Crissssttt.”

As I finish my fake crowd noises, I scowl. Damn. I just used my own full name on myself.

The way Reece does.

The way Reece used to.

“Well, at least you look runway ready, baby.” I reward myself for the pep talk with a soft laugh directed toward the bow-front kitten heels upon which I splurged as my heartbreak shoes. They’ve been sitting in the box for two days, but their Kelly-green color meant I had to wait for the ideal blouse to come back from the dry cleaners. Tonight, the whole ensemble has come together. I may not feel totally rockin’-red-carpet again, but at least I look it.

“Did I miss the punch line?”

So much for considering steps on a red carpet—or any steps at all—as I swing a glower toward the source of the quip. The line is as friendly as a greeting from one of my neighbors—if any of them had a Catherine Deneuve accent and smelled like Baccarat perfume mixed with clove cigarettes. But the scent isn’t what lodges my heart in my throat. I’m not even struck senseless by the fear Reece warned me to be so nutballs about—which is disconcerting but not entirely disturbing.

Because I like what I feel in fear’s place.

I let the rage settle in, pure and invigorating, while glaring at the bitch from head to toe. When I’m done with the onceover, I let out another laugh. Louder this time. And so much longer.

“Angelique La Salle.” I rock back on one foot. “The woman with the name of a princess and the wardrobe of a skank. Should I congratulate you on being well-rounded or just a puppet ho?”

The woman adopts a similar pose, her lips hitching like a droll doll. For a flash of a second, I catch something else on her face too. It’s the dread Reece kept warning me about—and it almost makes me feel sorry for the woman. For half a second.

Then I’m right back to hating the woman.

I only have to remember her sending Reece to his knees at the power station, adding humiliation to her initial betrayal. Deepening the sorrow that convinced him to never believe in the word trust again.

In so many ways, this bitch has already killed the man I love.

“Puppet ho.” She issues the echo with a mirthful half smile. “That is…très créatif, I will grant you that.” Her head tilts. “Hmmm. I see it now, a little bit, I think.”

“See what?”

“The quality you have…that captivates Reece.”

“Captivated Reece. Past tense. I haven’t seen the man in three days.” I’m thankful I’m able to fling it and mean it. Thankful to the tune of considering calling in sick tonight and replacing the work hours with copious wine consumption and a trash-TV binge.

Shit. Surreal second number two. Have I just understood a little of what made Reece cut things off with me the other night?

The…Consortium…is…cold…methodical…ruthless…

For three days, I’ve been stewing about him being a pussy, choosing to hide from them with the grander excuse of protecting me. But right now, I’m damn relieved I’m able to shield him.

“Haven’t ‘seen’ him, or haven’t seen him?”

“Okaaaaayy.” I’m still grateful she’s getting only my gut-level truth—meaning my genuine confusion. “You have hidden cameras in the bushes, right?” I peer into the bougainvillea, using the moment to disguise my next emotion. Pure triumph. I don’t know where Reece is—but neither do they.

“Are you able to answer the question?” As she takes a couple of deliberate steps forward, she reaches into hidden pockets in both her boots—releasing matching switchblades from the hidden compartments. She triggers the blades simultaneously, thwacking the steel on the air. The knives gleam in the afternoon sun as she advances with steadier purpose.

For two seconds, I indulge the folly of being concerned.

And then use my lunch pouch to knock one of them free and my water bottle to rid her of the other. Yeah, just like that, watching her scramble to scoop them up, pressing my lips to keep from laughing. I try to remember Reece’s warnings about the bitch, but rage has taken over, blinding me to common sense. The only thing I can think about is giving this Twinkie an LA-style version of karmic payback.

As she crouches lower for the second knife, I land a kitten heel in the center of her spine and dig in to knock her forward. She rolls over, but I’ve got kitten heel number two at the ready, and I jam it deep enough into her windpipe to ensure she gets the message.

“You ready for my answer now, darling? I haven’t seen Reece in at least three days, nor do I plan on seeing him again. But if I did, I’d be advising him to run like hell from a woman who doesn’t have the sense to trash a pair of boots like that after the whole city saw her on every news feed in town trying to take down their most beloved local hero and a chunk of LA’s power supply.”

I finally release my foot. Angelique lurches to her feet and grabs at her throat, choking out stuff in guttural French while running for the street and disappearing around the curve in the road. I’m pretty sure she called me either a raving bitch or a bowl of soup, though I’d bank on the former. I’m also pretty sure there’s a car waiting for her around that bend, and I should chase her to take notes or other super spy stuff like that, but I wouldn’t bet on my knees carrying me another step, let alone into a Bond girl chase scene. On top of that, every drop of adrenalin in my body now migrates to both ends of it. My head becomes a tornado. My feet quiver like I’ve strapped them to shake weights. The guts in between are a directionless mess.

Miracle of miracles, I’m able to climb the stairs to my unit without tripping. Aligning my apartment key with the little hole in the door? Not even a miracle’s going to help now.

“Emmalina.”

I whirl—to behold a walking, talking, six-foot-three miracle.

No. A blade of lightning. A force of nature. The heir with the hair. The billionaire bad boy. The sexy asshole in the spire.

My Bolt.

My man.

“Oh.” The syllable is all I can produce, my voice high and hurting but joyous and jubilant, as I fly into his arms without restraint or regret.

He lets out an, “Oof!” before laughing as I circle both legs around his waist, letting him take the keys and work my apartment lock open.

We move inside.

And I’m home. Really home.

Right where I need to be—after three damn days of hell.

Three days. Seventy-two hours. Anyone else would say they’re blips in the span of time, but I call everyone else freaking crazy.

“Oh…wow.” As I gasp it out, he drenches me in one of his lush laughs. I dive again for him, kissing him like crazy.

As my tears finally fall.

As I flood him with them, unashamed about turning the front of his dark-blue T-shirt into a piece of cobalt pop art.

As he returns the passion, trailing kisses through my hair.

He feels so good. His embrace is perfect, powerful, complete. I can feel his heartbeat mating with mine in our triumphant homecoming.

No.

This isn’t a reunion. It can’t be.

Nothing is different. Nothing has been fixed. As a matter of fact…

“What the hell?” I shove away from him and race around the room, slamming the blinds shut. “Oh my God, Reece, you can’t be here. Angelique—”

“I know.”

“Huh?”

“I know. She was here.”

“You…”

“I’ve been tracking her.”

“You’ve been what?” I spin around, grabbing him by both forearms. “How?”

He blushes. Holy shit. The man is even hotter in blushing, bumbling mode than he is in alpha demigod mode. “Easy, really. Just checked signatures for all cell phones on site at the El Segundo power plant on Friday night and ruled out the devices belonging to employees and me. Once I pinpointed her phone, it was easy to—”

“Okay, okay.” I giggle. “I get the gist.”

He doesn’t match my laugh this time. He twists our hold so he’s got me by the forearms, cradling my elbows while his gaze holds me like silver angel wings.

“I’ve been tracking her everywhere she goes. She’s mostly been back and forth from the mansion The Consortium’s surely using as their hub out here—which was why I fired up the M4 and followed as soon as I noticed her coming this direction.” His grasp tightens. “I got here just as she pulled the knives on you.”

“Way to jump in on the hairiest part of the movie, dude.”

“Which was why I didn’t jump in.” His nostrils go wide and his mouth becomes a tense line. “It was sheer hell to watch her do that to you.”

“Wasn’t too peachy from where I was at either.”

“But you were…incredible.” His features transform once again. His face ignites with something like awe, and his generous mouth spreads in a wide smile. “No. Not incredible. Magnificent.” He pushes into my personal space, cupping the back of my neck, and takes my mouth in a tender kiss. “You became my Bolt, Emmalina Crist.”

I moan in soft delight when he repeats the kiss with more demand, suckling his way into my mouth. Every cell in my body blazes to new life. I can tell he’s on the exact same page when his blue and gold fingertips flare in my peripheral, but I push back, ordering my hormones to stand down.

“I’m proud that you’re proud, Mr. Richards, but we’re still back at the same place we were before.” I sigh heavily. “Maybe even worse, since I now understand how The Consortium really doesn’t know the meaning of the word boundaries.”

He dips a terse nod. “Yeah. Definitely worse.”

He steps away completely, starting to methodically pace the room with hands on his lean hips. I take just a second to admire the view. The tailored black slacks he wears with the T-shirt fit his ass as perfectly as any pair of jeans ever, perhaps even better.

“This won’t be the last time Angelique decides to make a house call,” he goes on. “I guarantee The Consortium will pick up some vibe that you’re still in contact with me.”

“And being apart completely is off the table.”

“On more levels than the obvious.” He flashes a wink over his shoulder.

A long pause goes by, thickening with our combined tension. Not so jokingly, I mutter, “Maybe there’s a remote island in the South Pacific somewhere. A cute hotel where everyone pays in puka shells and smiles? I could wear a muumuu to work every day…”

“Uh-uh.” Reece saunters back over and tugs me into the perfect envelope of his embrace. “Wrong direction. You need to find a place where work attire is just the shells and the smile.”

I help out with the smile part, at least. After we kiss softly, I sigh against his chest, treasuring the sound of the steady thumps beneath my ear. “We’ll figure this out.”

“I’ll figure this out.” He presses his lips into the top of my head. “I got you into this crazy mess, Emmalina.”

“I like the crazy mess—as long as I’m in it with you, okay?”

“Okay.” He lowers his head, fitting his forehead to mine. “Trust me?”

“Always.”

---

Three days later, always is getting a little harder to keep believing.

Those are my exact words in a text message to Reece, snuck in during a trip to the ladies’ room that I can hopefully stretch out for another minute without suspicion. I’ve purposely picked the facilities farthest from the ballroom at the Pelican Hill Resort, hoping Mother, Father, and Lydia decide to forget where I am. If I’m lucky, maybe I can pass the next hour here in my cozy stall, smelling the “tropical flowers” being automatically spritzed into the air and trading messages with the man who’s turned sexting into an art.

The same way he’s turned over every inch of my heart.

I love him. I can’t stop telling him. Because he’s the only one who ever gets to know.

Ahhh, the fantasy life of a super hero’s girlfriend.

I text something close to that, giggling softly at his reply.

I’m settling in for a juicy story when the bathroom door creaks open.

“Emmalina? Are you in this bathroom?”

I grit my teeth, fighting the temptation to scream at Mother’s summons—a wasted endeavor even if I did indulge. Screaming doesn’t help when it comes to my family. They love me, in their shrouded way. Deeply shrouded.

“Right here.” I force civility to the response. It’s not her fault that I can’t seem to jump on the Newport-Beach-is-complete-nirvana boat. I’ve given up on even finding the dock. “I’m almost done.”

“Oh, good.” She makes primping sounds from the bathroom’s vanity area. “Dinner will be served in a while, and then they’ll start the awards ceremony—but you’re missing all the fun stuff.”

“Of course.”

My forced pleasantry might pass acting muster with anyone but Laurel Crist. In two seconds, her maternal lasers pierce right through my sham.

“Honestly, Emma.” She rises as I emerge, folding arms over her St. John crinkle silk picot gown. She’s wearing matching heels and gemstone earrings, all meant to highlight the eyes that nearly match mine in color. “You’re in the hospitality industry. You need to be more…hospitable.”

“I am hospitable—to my guests.” I smile, squeezing out a little charm—especially when pondering how my primped, perfect mother would react if knowing how charming I’ve just been with Reece freaking Richards. But that’s not a truth she gets to know. Not a secret the world will ever discover.

“Can you just say you’ll try, missy?”

I take a Zen breath, gritting to continue the smile. “Yes, ma’am.”

“And put on some darker lipstick. You look washed out.”

I deflect that one the best way I know how. “You look super pretty tonight.”

“Really?” She skips a look backward. “You think so? Does this cut make my hips look—”

“You look stunning.” Though I mean it, I can see she doesn’t believe me. She eyes herself in the full-length mirror, her stare critical.

“Your father told me to wear navy.” She tsks and shakes her head. “He thinks I look jaundiced in this.”

I reach and grab her hand. “Well, he’s wrong.”

“You say the nicest things, honey.” She pats the side of my face. “But you still need a darker shade of lipstick. Maybe your sister will have something you can borrow.”

We reenter cocktail reception hell. I hide out in my typical place, at Lydia’s side, letting my tennis star sister bask in the smooches, air kisses, and half hugs from people here to see her. Actually, the affection stuff isn’t so bad. It’s the conversation between all of it, centering around the same twelve subjects, that makes me wonder if a person can truly slit their wrists with a butter knife.

At times, I do try to engage—only to be greeted with the same glassy-eyed expressions in response to any of the tidbits I get hounded to share.

“Ohhhh. You’re living in downtown LA? Why?”

“But there are so many adventures right here. I mean, have you seen the new yogurt place?”

“Why do you work the night shift? Aren’t you good enough for the day one?”

“What movie stars have you met? Or do they get handled by the normal hotel workers?”

“You take the train to work? Well, what’s wrong with your driving?”

What’s wrong with you?

My teeth lock, freezing my smile in place. My hands clench behind my back. My head starts to pound, and I fight an insane craving to jump out the window.

What’s wrong with you?

I should be used to the refrain by now, right? Then why does it seem more relentless now? Why does it weigh on every breath I take and move I make, closing in like the inside of a grand, pretty box? But why would you want more than this? Isn’t the box enough? Why do you want to be more, when you have this?

I find my place setting and sit down to watch the frozen butter rosettes start to melt, wondering when they’ll stop looking like flowers—and feel weirdly sad for when they do. People don’t like butter as much when it doesn’t look like a rose. But doesn’t it taste the same?

Yep. It’s official. I really am in hell.

Except suddenly, hell comes to a complete stop.

An all-consuming hush—interrupted by waves of fervid whispers. Then astonished gasps. Then high outcries. Even a few elated little old lady yeeps.

Lydia appears at my side. Her face reflects the same stunned curiosity as everyone else’s. “Holy shit, Em.”

“Holy shit what?” I scrutinize her. “’Dia? Are you—what the hell?”

“Stand up.” She titters a little, urging me to my feet. Doesn’t take much effort. She’s been playing tennis for nearly twelve years and her arms are like Mack Truck pistons. “Stand up, girl. Ohmigod, what’s he doing here?”

“He who?”

“I’m going to pass out. This is epic.”

“What is?”

Epic. Well, that’s one way of saying it. Breathtaking could be another. Beautiful, too. But no matter how many descriptors I add to the mix, they don’t come close to the twist of my stomach, the leap of my pulse, the race of my blood, and the lightning in my heart as a flawless figure in black leather strides across the room like he owns it. Who knows? Maybe he does—but that’s the last thing dominating my mind and caressing my libido. Like every other woman in the room, my breaths are shallow and my pulse is triple its norm as he swaggers arrogantly on those custom ninja boots, his electric eyes gleaming behind that sleek Maserati mask.

Holy. Shit.

He’s. Here. Out in a very public way—at a five-star resort that, as clearly as I can determine, isn’t a hotbed for any hoodlums tonight, leading my brain to thunder with the same quandary Lydia just voiced. What the hell is he doing here?

Reece supplies the immediate answer as soon as his gaze locks on me. With a determined drop of his head, he marches directly through the crowd. At me. Somehow, I stay on my feet, barely subduing the giddy grin on my face, as he very nearly leaves piles of female tongues in his wake.

At last, he stops.

For at least a minute, we’re silent. Stares tangling. Energies renewing. Connection reaffirmed.

Dear hell, I want to jump him. Worse than ever before. Will this feeling ever go away? Do I want it to?

He gives me the answer to that too, as soon as he scoops up my hand. The gloves are barely a shield for our heat, our need, our attraction.

Deep breath. Deep breath. The mantra is no use. My blood heats, all but dictating me to slam him to the wall and nail him right here. The wild sparks in the back of his gaze instantly reveal his exact same battle.

He clears his throat. And then again. And executes a low bow before brushing my knuckles with his lips, sending electrical zaps through all my fingers. He sneaks in a tiny bite to one. My heart turns over in my chest. Three times.

“Hi there, beauty.”

Audible swoons ripple out from our bubble, spreading through the crowd like electrical pulses. Damn good comparison, in light of what he’s doing to my whole nervous system.

“Hi there, gorgeous.”

The murmur has barely left my lips when Mother and Father appear. The St. John dress is perfectly smoothed out. Father, from whom I got my light-blond hair, deep dimples, and round face, steps forward. He grabs Reece’s hand, pumping it wildly, not letting go until the event photographer appears and snaps at least ten shots.

“Mr. Bolt,” Father declares, milking the marketing op of a lifetime. “What an honor to have you here at our humble little event, sir. Are you a tennis fan?”

Reece nods. “I’ve dabbled. Though I’m more of a high-intensity thrill seeker.”

Father throws back his head on a laugh. “Of course you are! Ha ha! Yes, yes.”

Mother smoothly slips into the exchange. Her hands clasp demurely at her waist. Her smile is nearly a whitener commercial. “We must admit, this is quite a surprise. Any special reason for your appearance?” She gazes around, mouth dropping in mock horror. “Nobody here has been naughty tonight, have they?”

As the closest crowd members break out in laughter, Reece holds up a black-gloved hand. “You’re all off the hook,” he assures. “Well…everyone except her.”

More stunned murmurs spread through the room. “Errmm…Emmalina?” Mother stutters, as if being told the coffee bar has run out of soy milk. “Really?”

“Really.” Reece shoots a look as if he wants to chuck the soy milk at her.

“Why?”

“Because I’m in love with her.”

Heart melting.

Mother gawking.

Father glowing.

And boyfriend? Smirking. Robbing me of breath as his grin beams even wider—the moment he sweeps his free hand to the back of his head, fingers twisting at the clasp of his mask.

“I’m in love with her,” he announces again. This time his face is exposed. “And I want the whole damn world to know it.”

The air leaves the room.

No. Really.

“Hot damn,” Father finally utters.

“Holy hell,” Mother gasps.

“Oh, sister!” Lydia’s exclamation is like a permission slip of reaction for the rest of the throng. Cell phone cameras are brandished, shouts are volleyed, and walls of humanity suddenly press in on us from every side. As sheer shock does the same thing to my heart, I grab Reece harder, stabbing the force of a thousand questions into my unblinking gape. In return, he palms my cheek with a gloved hand, his touch as tender as his kiss.

“It’ll be all right, Velvet.”

I twist a wry look. “Says who, hot stuff?”

He answers that by raising his hand into the air. At once, the room returns to silence, meaning my astounded gasp is an audible stab in the air. Even without the mask, the man brandishes special strength.

“Mr. and Mrs. Crist.” My boyfriend, looking a dozen kinds of sexy with his thick, messy hair and leather-clad strength, pivots back toward my parents. “I’m here tonight, declaring this here, because your daughter is worth this. She’s my super hero, and that’s a truth the whole world needs to know.” He draws a breath to follow up that but stops himself, shaking his head, before angling his gaze across the crowd. “You people see me doing all the flashy stuff, and you think I’m the noble one, the bold one, the badass against the bad guys.” He chuffs, one side of his mouth ticking up. “But what I do is the easy game. Real heroes, those we should aspire to be, aren’t made from roundhouse kicks or fancy fingertips that make light shows or dudes who can lob electric snowballs from time to time.”

He faces me again. He steps in closer, bracing nearly toe-to-toe with me, consuming my vision with the utter beauty of his eyes, the loving lift of his lips.

“Heroes are people like all of us, who choose more for their lives and those of others, and are brave and bold and real about seeking those dreams.” He still declares it in a raised voice, but it’s one of the most intimate things he’s ever said to me… One of his most meaningful gifts. “They don’t accept anything less than living their truth and encouraging that bold, brutal honesty in others—like this amazing woman has done for me.”

At that, the room erupts again—in a wild burst of applause.

I think.

There’s not much I’m conscious of as tears blur my vision and joy rushes my heart, propelling me forward. Reece’s mighty arms crush me closer, until our chests are pressed and our lips are meshed. “I love you,” I tell him, once we can stand to pull apart by a few inches. All three syllables are drenched in the desire and amazement of my mind, my soul, my spirit.

“And I love you, Velvet.” He dips in again, taking my mouth more gently.

“I know. Wow, do I know.”

He grins while pulling me out of the ballroom, thanking Father for letting him “steal me away” as the lunch service begins. Before we go, I promise Lydia I’ll return in time, with Reece in tow, to see her awards, but know I won’t miss the meal one bit. What girl in their right mind has time for food when a hero in leather has just unmasked himself for her, in more ways than one, in front of two hundred people?

Once we find our way onto a walking path overlooking the ocean, Reece stops and spins me around, smashing me against him once more. Before I can say a word, his lips have descended, plunged, devoured, and dominated, tilting my balance and stealing my breath. Once I get my equilibrium back, I pull away a little, though maintain my hold with both hands deep in his hair. Doesn’t look like the man minds one damn bit. He’s full of seduction and adoration, wind-blown and sexy as hell.

And now someone’s sucked the air out of me, too.

“So,” he murmurs.

“So?” I tilt a coy grin.

“We wow worthy yet?”

I rear back to smack his shoulder but decide on a better torture—smashing my mouth back to his, parting his lips with my tongue, and not stopping until his crotch is hard and incessant against mine. When we’re breathing hard and all but mauling each other on the path, I whisper against his lips, “Wow.”

“Good.” He dips closer, cradling my hips in his powerful hold. Wind gusts over the bluff, carrying the sound of crashing waves and the electricity of the burgeoning night. “Because I want to give you a lifetime of wows, Emmalina.”

Heart stopping, yet again.

And restarting at twice its speed, snagging my breath. “I want you in my life too.”

His smile fades. He leans down, pressing his forehead to mine. “Even now?”

I grab both sides of his face and dig in my fingers, letting him know I understand the scope of the question. This is it. He’s gone public—the super hero version of a handwritten invitation to all the globe’s bad guys, not just The Consortium. He has no idea how easy he’s just made my answer, given from every crevice of the heart he’s filled.

“Yes, Mr. Richards. Especially now.”

“Thank fuck.” His exhale is a sexy growl as he gathers me close for another mind-bending kiss. As my thoughts fly and my blood heats, I release an eager sigh into his mouth—but attempt to compose my features once he lets me go. It’s hard to chastise him when he looks this damn good, but I’m fixed on giving it my best shot.

“What took you so damn long?”

He snorts. “Three days?”

“Forever.”

A wry nod. “Yeah. You’re right. Forever.” He nuzzles into my hair. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“Right again, woman of mine.” Holy hell. Those words. It’s a struggle not to launch myself onto him once more, but I gulp hard, waiting for the follow-up brewing behind his stare. “I needed to take a beat. To recalibrate.”

I laugh, biting my lip. “That’s what you’re calling this?”

He chuffs. “Why not?”

“Good point.”

He takes another breath. “Before I came back to you, I just needed…to be sure.”

“About what?”

“About all of it. The way I’ve been approaching this…super power.” His brow furrows. “The way I’ve been approaching life.”

I let a hand slide down to the middle of his chest. “You mean the life you were ready to chuck.”

“Well, yes.”

“Which was why you started going after criminals like a honey badger.”

He’s silent for a moment, caressing the curve of my waist, his fingers finally meeting at the small of my back. “I felt as freakish as a wild animal, so why not?”

I slowly shake my head. “But you made a very human decision. To make things better.”

“Atonement,” he volleys. “Hoping I’d tip the cosmic favor back my way a little bit—but that was before you came along and changed everything.”

I attempt a laugh but it’s stolen the moment his gaze, as silver as the stars yet as tender as the moonlight, pierces into me. “Hey.” I lightly bat at his sternum. “You walked into my office, remember?”

He pulls me even closer, refitting our bodies together. “And from the moment I did, life wasn’t the same.” The wind, smelling of sea salt and night flowers, blows a chunk of his hair at the edge of his gaze. “Life was something I wanted again. And after you filled my heart, something I needed.”

I circle my arms around his neck. “Reece.” My whisper is paltry in the shadow of what he’s given me, the enormity of the life he’s made me need too. “God…Reece…”

“What is it, Velvet?”

“You’re…my more.”

“And you’re my life.” He utters it while sliding his lips within half a breath of mine, until I can feel the thunder of his heart and every electron in his bloodstream. But all too fast, his expression sobers. “This is really new territory for me, Emma.”

I slide away, but only by a few inches. “Being an outted super hero?”

He slowly shakes his head. “Being in love.”

My heart skips at least three beats. I lean on tiptoe to kiss his nose. “It’s new territory for me too.”

“We’ll figure it out together.” Our foreheads touch once more. “So let those fuckers come. We’ll be ready.”

I smile too—from all the jubilant depths of my heart. “We sure as hell will be.”

He regards me with new concentration. “It’s not going to be easy, Velvet. We don’t live in a comic strip.”

“I know.” I pull on the back of his neck, taking his mouth in a long, adoring kiss. “But it’ll be life.”

He kisses me back. “It’ll be together.”

“It’ll be more.”

“It’ll be us.”

I swallow hard, swearing off the tears as his promise bursts to brilliance in my heart. As our lips meet again, a multitude of colors begin exploding in the sky. A synchronized laser show flashes up to join the fireworks.

It’s beautiful. Electric. Chaotic. A little bit of insanity. A lot of intensity.

Just like our love.

The greatest super power of them all.

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