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“No,” I correct him. “We’re already at fucking war.”
I’ve been ready to ready to run the streets red with the Bratva soldiers since the night one of them had the gall to step foot inside Layla’s apartment.
I’d go to war with them by myself for her.
I walk my brothers to the elevator and send them both home. I begin to remove my ruined clothes as I make my way to our master bathroom. Stripping out of the rest, I drop them all into the trash.
“It’s a good thing the club is doing so well,” Layla calls to me from the spray of the water.
Climbing into the shower with her, I can’t seem to stop myself from asking, “And why is that?”
She steps out of the spray to allow me the opportunity to rinse the dried blood from my face and skin. Scrubbing at my face, I dread to think what she’s going to answer. “Because these dry-cleaning bills are going to fucking brutal.”
I merely shake my head at her as I fill my palm with a generous amount of soap. Quickly lathering it over my skin, I rinse the last of tonight’s evils down the drain before covering my hand with an equally generous amount of shampoo.
“What are you doing?” Layla asks when I slide my fingers into her hair and begin to work the shampoo into suds.
“Cleaning you,” I answer matter-of-factly. “You don’t need to wear my sins.”
I scrub my suds-covered hands through my short hair and give it a quick rinse before placing her back under the spray. She tips her head back, and I wash the shampoo from her hair as she stares up at me.
“You really would die to keep me safe, wouldn’t you?” she asks softly.
“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, mo cuishle.” I pull her to me and move us both under the warmth of the stream.
The lengths I would go to for her should terrify men far more than the name I have earned for myself, Balor. Death would be a blessing in comparison to the things I will do to the next man who dares think of harming her.
I press my lips to hers and pull her so tightly to me that water can’t run between our bodies as I drag my tongue over her lips. They part for me, and I teasingly dart my tongue into her mouth until she begins to fight me for more.
Plundering her mouth, I hoist her around my waist and press her back to the wall. Both of us are breathless when I finally pull back. I stare down at her as I catch my breath, so fucking in awe.
“What?” she asks with a hint of coyness as I tuck a sodden tendril behind her ear.
“Bí liom. Mo bhean chéile.”
She holds my gaze, waiting for me to translate for her. When I don’t, she huffs, “You know I’ve learned maybe thirty words so far. Most of them expletives, thanks to your brothers. I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“Be mine. My wife.”
She stares back at me in silence, clearly surprised by my ask.
“Marry me, mo cuishle,” I run my fingers along her jaw as I plead. “Marry me and give me a life worth living.”
“Yes,” she responds instantly, tears welling in her eyes.
I cup her face and claim her mouth as I press myself into her, groaning into her mouth, “Mo bhean chéile.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
LAYLA
Tristan left the penthouse early this morning to handle a few things at the club so that we could spend the day together. It’s still way too early to be calling Jorge, but I can’t wait any longer.
“You better be dead or dying,” he grumbles into the phone.
“Neither,” I chirp with a very unusual perkiness.
“Blech… When did you become a morning person?”
