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“We’d be honored,” Katia says.

“We’ll be there no matter what,” Anya agrees, squeezing my hand.

We spill out of the restaurant two hours later, flushed with wine and warmth, and I stand on the pavement exchanging the last goodbyes—the hugs, the promises, the text me when you’re home safes.

Mila is last. She holds on longer than the others, her chin on my shoulder.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Cora,” she says in a fierce whisper.

“Me too,” I say.

And I can’t quite believe it, but I am okay. More than okay. I’m floating.

I watch them go, Anya and Katia arm in arm, Mila turning back once to wave.

I’m alone for a moment on the street, but I know I’m not truly alone. I’ve felt their presence throughout the lunch, but discreetly. My bodyguards go everywhere with me, but now they have new instructions to protect me while still giving me space to breathe. To live.

But now a dark figure makes itself known.

“Printsessa.”

I turn, and he’s there.

Leaning against the hood of the Mercedes-AMG with his arms folded and his ankles crossed, wearing dark jeans and a jacket, his pale eyes drinking me in, a smile on his beautiful lips.

My heart lifts.

No bracing for suffocation, no waiting for the catch, no awareness of the space between us and wondering if he’s going to fill it with violence. Just my man, on the hood of his car, looking at me like I’m the best thing he’s seen all day.

Zevran didn’t call twelve times or come into the restaurant.

He waited for me.

No receipts.

He opens his arms, and I run straight into them.

He wraps himself around me, his chin dropping to the top of my head, and I feel his warmth through his jacket. I close my eyes and breathe him in.

“Good lunch?” he asks, into my hair.

He pulls me between his strong thighs, and it feels like the safest place in the world.

“Very good lunch.” I lean back enough to look at him, my hands resting on his chest. “They explained what a cuck chair is.”

His eyes widen, then he grins. “How could such a dirty thing have come up at a lunch for nice, polite young women?”

I gently shove his shoulder, feeling the heat rise in my cheeks. “I wonder, Zevran Komarov.”

He tilts my chin up until I’m looking into his pale, possessive eyes, and then he cups my face and kisses me, deep and thorough. When he pulls back, his eyes are very dark and his voice is pitched low. “Sometimes a man has to make it really fucking clear who his woman belongs to and what he’ll do to keep her.”

I’m tingling from the top of my head right down to my toes.

The car is perfect once more, gleaming and unmarked, every dent and scratch from Troy’s rough handling smoothed away. Alexei’s work.

My two bodyguards are at a discreet distance, already moving toward their own vehicle as we get into the Mercedes.

“Did you remember the box?” I ask him.