In that split second when I locked eyes with this devastatingly lethal masterpiece of untamed beauty—mine searching to understand, hers hardened in resolve—I knew one thing with absolute clarity: she wasn’t the kind of woman a man walked away from unscathed. She fought like a demon, looked like a damn dream, and if I had any sense, I’d focus on survival instead of how much I wanted to pin her down for entirely different reasons. Whether I made it out of this fight or not, I was already a goner. She wasn’t just dangerous—she was the kind of trouble men lost themselves in.

~Braxton Thorin, Mission Shift

Safe was no longer enough.

I wanted her happy.

There was so much I still didn’t know about her, but one thing had become terrifyingly clear.

If Isabella chose a life without me in it, I was thoroughly fucked.

But we had tonight.

And if tonight was all fate ever gave me with her, I was going to give her everything I had in return.

Every touch.

Every tenderness.

Every bit of love in me, whether I was ready to call it that or not.

A Manhattan mafia man and a princess hidden inside a cartel compound on the side of a Salvadoran volcano should never have met.

Certainly not in a dungeon with me chained to a chair and her holding the key.

I would never call the lies, torture, blood, or loss that brought us here a gift. But chance no longer seemed big enough to explain how two lives that should never have touched had somehow collided in the darkest of places.

“It’s strange learning where you came from after you’ve already become who you are.”

Lachlan was quiet for a moment.

“Blood can tell you where you came from, Mouse. Doesn’t mean anyone gets to decide where you go next.”

She turned toward me slowly—eyes wide and wild, chest heaving.

And for one savage second, I forgot everything but my hunger for her.

She wasn’t just beautiful.

She was a fucking Valkyrie. A goddess. A queen.

I wanted to drop to my knees right then and there. Bow before her. Swear my loyalty to whatever realm she came from.

My little lamb had become a force of nature.

And I would die trying to save her.

~Nikolai Volkov, Eyes on You

Instead of standing, he lowered himself onto one knee between my legs and took my face gently in both hands.

“Look at me, Isabella.”

Something in the roughness of his voice made me obey.

His green eyes held mine, and hearing my name wrapped in that deep Irish accent made everything else recede.

“You’re safe,” he said.

“Why do you call me Mouse?” I asked.

“It suits you.”

“It makes me sound small and weak.”

“Small doesn’t mean weak, Mouse.” His gaze settled on mine. “Predators watch the doors. They never think to watch the walls.”

By the time he’d finished the song, I was so wrapped up in his playing and the sound of his voice that I hadn’t realized how much my imagination had run wild. I was having a vivid daydream about those very fingers, imagining how well he could play—me—and betting mentally that he could make me sing too.

~Anastasia Volkov, Day Shift