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A normal day for me is hitting the gym, then the shooting range or the ring, and then Kosmos to see if Dragan has any work for me.

But today is not a normal day.

Today is all about Cora.

I collect my suit jacket where it’s hanging from a hook, and put it on, settling it over my shoulders. “You left your old life with nothing but the clothes on your back. We’re going to fix that, printsessa. I’ve decided you need everything.”

Ten minutes later, we’re in the back of a shiny black Mercedes-Maybach S-Class, driven by a capable and dangerous man called Demyan. I have my arm around her waist, my knees spread and relaxed against the leather, while she’s curled into my side. She nibbles on her thumbnail as she stares out the window.

I’ve been pointing out stores as we cruise down the street, all lit up with the logos of French and Italian designers. With each one Cora’s expression grows more panicked.

“I can’t go into any of these places,” she exclaims, tugging my T-shirt down her thighs. “Look at me. I’m wearing nothing but your T-shirt. I don’t even have shoes.”

Is it wicked of me to think she’s adorable when she’s nervous?

I cup her neck, press a kiss to her throat, and feel her pulse fluttering wildly. “That doesn’t matter.”

“It absolutely matters. They’ll throw us out.”

“They wouldn’t dare.” I lean forward and speak to the driver. “Pull over in front of that one.”

“Zevran—” she protests.

I get out of the car, open her door, and scoop her up before she can say anything else. She makes a noise of pure outrage and grabs my shoulders.

“Put me down!”

I level a look at her from behind my shades. “On the dirty sidewalk in bare feet? Not in a million years.”

I carry her inside, and she buries her furiously blushing face in my neck.

The store is exactly what it should be. Cool, hushed, with dresses and handbags artfully arranged under soft lighting. Three assistants look up as we walk in.

I stop in the middle of the floor.

“This is my future wife,” I announce. “She needs an entirely new wardrobe. I have a considerable amount of cash and nothing else to do this morning but spend it on her. Her feet are not touching the ground until she’s wearing Italian leather high heels. Who wants to help us?”

All three assistants snap to it.

Cora has gone the color of a peony. “I can’t believe you just did that,” she hisses into my ear.

I smile down at her in my arms. “But it’s working.”

The assistants descend with boxes. I set Cora down on a velvet chair and watch three people kneel with different pairs of shoes for her dainty feet, and I feel—there’s no other word for it—fucking delighted.

Thirty minutes later she’s wearing an evening dress that probably costs more than my first car and holding a glass of champagne, and she looks extraordinary.

She doesn’t know she looks extraordinary. She’s looking at herself in the mirror with an expression caught between wonder and alarm. One of the assistants is holding up a coat that would look incredible on her, and another is laying bags across a chaise. Cora’s eyes keep searching for the price tags.

There are no price tags in a place like this. If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

I’m on the sofa with my own champagne, telling the assistants to box up anything that Cora even briefly admires, and I am having the best day of my life.

She turns to me. “Zevran, stop. I don’t need everything just because I said it’s pretty. I can’t even see how much these things cost.”

I set my glass down and stand up. The assistants melt away with professional discretion.

I cross the room, set her glass aside, and lean in for a kiss.