Three hours before my wedding, I heard the man I was about to marry say, “I don’t want her. I never did.”

A week after Ethan regained consciousness, the syndicate’s council demanded an emergency assembly at the Carter estate.

The hit on the mansion had rattled the five families of the Chicago syndicate. Whispers were spreading that Ethan was weak, that the Russo family was preparing a full-scale invasion, and that the Moretti-Carter alliance was a hollow facade.

I stood beside the tall double doors of the estate’s grand boardroom, wearing an emerald-green wool sheath dress and diamond earrings Ethan had sent to my room that morning with a simple note: *Stand with me.*

Inside, the voices were loud and combative.

"The alliance hasn't produced stability!" an older council member, Don Carmine, bellowed. "Vincent Moretti’s shipments were raided twice this week! And rumors say the Carter household is split. Separate wings? No public appearances? Derek says the marriage isn't even consummated!"

I bristled outside the door. Derek’s poison was at work again.

"Derek speaks out of turn," Brian’s voice retorted sharply. "And he forgets who heads this table."

"Does he?" Derek’s arrogant voice chimed in. "Ethan took a bullet. He's hiding behind security. The code says an alliance is sealed by an heir, or at least a united front. If Ethan can't secure the Moretti bloodline, the council has the right to redistribute the southern routes!"

The double doors swung open before Derek could finish his sentence.

Ethan stepped into the room, leaning lightly on an ebony cane with a silver wolf's head. He wore a midnight-blue three-piece suit, impeccably tailored, concealing the heavy bandages around his ribs. His face was pale, but his eyes carried the terrifying, cold fire of an apex predator.

Behind him, I stepped into the room, my heels clicking rhythmically on the polished wood.

The boardroom fell dead silent.

Ethan walked slowly to the head of the table, ignoring the chair, and slammed his cane onto the polished mahogany with a crack that sounded like a gunshot.

"Who questioned my household?" Ethan demanded, his voice dangerously low, reverberating off the paneled walls.

No one spoke. Don Carmine looked down at his ledger. Derek shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the purple bruises on his throat still faintly visible beneath his collar.

"You discuss an heir?" Ethan continued, stepping behind my chair and resting a heavy, warm hand possessively upon my shoulder. The weight of his hand felt like an anchor. "You discuss my wife's honor while sitting at my table, eating food bought with my blood?"

He looked directly at Derek, his eyes promising retribution.

"My marriage is sovereign," Ethan stated, each word an unyielding decree. "What happens in my house, in my bed, and between my wife and me is beyond the jurisdiction of this council. If any man in this room speaks Clara’s name in vain again, I will not call a council meeting. I will call a funeral."

The older men nodded hurriedly, murmuring their agreement and loyalty. Ethan dismissed them with a cold flick of his wrist. "Meeting adjourned. Carmine, leave the logistics files. Derek... we will talk later."

The council members filed out swiftly, avoiding Ethan’s gaze. Derek lingered for a moment, shooting me a glare dripping with malice, before disappearing into the corridor.

When the heavy doors clicked shut, only Ethan and I remained in the vast room.

Ethan let out a slow, controlled exhale, his grip on his cane tightening as a wave of pain clearly hit his wounded side. He slumped slightly against the table.

"Ethan," I murmured, rushing to his side, catching his arm. "You shouldn't have stood for that long. Dr. Ross told you—"

Ethan turned, pulling me flush against his chest before I could finish the sentence.

The cane clattered to the floor. His good arm circled my waist, lifting me slightly, trapping me against the solid wall of his body. The scent of him—rich cedar, bergamot, and raw power—filled my senses.

"You wore the green," he whispered, his gray eyes searching mine, stripped of all boardroom politics. "You stood with me."

"I told you I wasn't leaving," I replied, my voice breathless, my hands resting instinctively against his lapels, feeling the rapid, heavy thud of his heart beneath the silk. "Even if you are an arrogant bastard who thinks he can control the world."

Ethan’s mouth curved into that rare, devastating smile that made my knees weak. "I only want to control one thing, Clara."

"What?"

"This," he murmured, his gaze falling to my lips. "Tell me to stop. Tell me you still hate me, Clara. Tell me now, or by God, I'm going to ruin whatever peace you have left."

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. The three months of silence, the pain of the study, the terror of the shooting—it all dissolved under the heat of his gaze.

"Don't stop," I whispered.

Ethan groaned, his fingers tangling into my hair, and brought his mouth down on mine.

It wasn't the cold, contractual kiss of our wedding day. It was a collision of fire, desperate and starving. His lips were demanding, parting mine with a possessive hunger that stole every drop of air from my lungs. I clung to his shoulders, kissing him back with all the pent-up longing, fear, and love I had buried inside my chest.

When he finally broke the kiss, breathing heavily, his forehead rested against mine, his gray eyes blazing with a dark, triumphant fire.