Heart of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #3)(43)

A burst of warmth gusts through me and I squeeze him tighter. “I love you.”

“Good, because you’re stuck with me.”

I lift up to meet his gaze. “You’re supposed to say you love me too.”

“I love you more than life itself. If you needed an arm, I’d offer mine up, no matter how strange it would look attached to your body. You’re it for me, Indy.”

His starkly handsome face, with his dark five o’clock shadow, is completely serious, and my heart feels like it might burst open from joy.

“I love you,” I whisper again, this time with tears leaking from the corners of my eyes.

“Ace, you can’t cry now. It kills me.”

“They’re happy tears,” I say as he carefully wipes them away.

“I should’ve made a no-crying rule when I had the chance,” he says in a grumble, but it’s halfhearted at best. “Come on. I’m going to make you breakfast.”

I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. “And he cooks,” I whisper. “Luckiest. Woman. Ever.”

Jericho’s laugh echoes through the bedroom as he reaches for my hand to pull me out of bed.





43





Forge





If losing Isaac taught me anything, it was that life is short. Tomorrow isn’t a guarantee. Somehow, in the midst of all of this, I forgot how important it is not to waste a single day, because you don’t know when your number will be up.

As Indy and I dress and walk out into the kitchen hand in hand, I make a promise to myself. Treat her like I’m going to lose her tomorrow. There’s nothing like the imminent possibility of losing the person you love most to make you appreciate her even more.

I have more money than I could spend in three lifetimes, and revenge . . . well, I already learned that isn’t satisfying when it costs you everything that matters.

The kitchen is empty when we arrive, and I silently thank Dorsey for giving us space. She and the others are hopefully holed up on the back side of the island in the staff houses.

“You, stool.” I point Indy to the bar on the opposite side of the massive granite-topped island in the kitchen that houses the stove top and a sink.

“You don’t have to tell me twice. Everything tastes doubly good when I don’t have to cook it for myself. Or burn it for myself . . . as the case may be.”

She twists her messy hair up into a knot on her head, and the memory of her telling me she was high maintenance and didn’t wake up looking gorgeous comes back. She lied. She looks even more beautiful this morning than she did last night.

I reach into the fridge for the ingredients to make scrambled eggs and pancakes from scratch. The chef on board the Fortuna didn’t mind me hanging out in the kitchen as a kid, especially since my ribs practically poked through my skin during those early weeks after I stowed away.

“I’ll teach you,” I tell her.

Indy’s grin turns wry. “That may be an impossible task.”

“Never. Now, watch and learn.”

I open the drawers in the island for the dry goods and measure them in a bowl before mixing them up and adding in all the wet ingredients, including a healthy dash of vanilla. Before I whisk, I grab an orange, wash it, and scrape some zest into the mixture.

“Now I can say I’ve seen it all. Jericho Forge knows how to use kitchen utensils I’ve never seen, but I’m pretty sure you just zested an orange.”

“That’s the secret ingredient. Now you really can’t escape, because I can’t take a chance that you’ll spill.” Even though my words are joking, Indy’s smile dies. “What?”

“You know I’d never tell anyone anything you tell me. About you, your business, your life . . .”

My head jerks back at her quiet statement. “You don’t need to say that. I trust you, India. With my life.”

Her smile comes back. “Then we’re even, because my heart’s in your hands. Take care of it.”

I walk around the counter to pull her into my arms. “You have my solemn vow.”

Breakfast has to wait another hour, because I carry her back to the bedroom.





“Sir? I don’t want to interrupt, but we have someone requesting permission to land.”

“Permission to land?” Indy asks, looking up from her pancakes, which are now brunch.

“Who?” I ask Sanderson, lowering my fork.

“Grigory Federov. They’re two minutes out.”

Nothing he can say will make me give her up. Not a fucking thing. It’s time to make sure the Russian understands.

“Grant permission.”

“I can’t believe he’s here.” Indy sounds just as shocked as she looks. “He was just in Monaco . . . why would he come here? I beat him, you know.”

“I heard. I was proud as hell.”

“That’s when he told me what he said to you. Why you pushed me away.”

Regret rolls through me. I hate that I let Federov get in my head and force me to make a decision I didn’t want to make. But he was right in some respects. I didn’t start things with Indy the right way, and if what we have is going to stand the test of a lifetime, it needs a solid foundation. That foundation has been laid, whether he likes it or not.