The morning sun was an unforgiving blade of light slicing through the heavy velvet curtains of the master suite. Violet groaned, her head throbbing with the rhythmic pulse of a bourbon-induced hangover. The air in the room was warm, smelling of expensive linens and the lingering, earthy scent of Roman.
As consciousness slowly clawed its way back, she realized she couldn't move. A heavy, muscular weight was draped over her, pinning her to the mattress. Roman was behind her, his chest a solid wall of heat against her back, his arm wrapped so tightly around her waist it felt as though he were trying to fuse their bodies together. He was holding her with a desperate, unconscious intensity, as if his sleeping mind was terrified she would vanish into the shadows the moment he let go.
Then, she felt it.
A firm, unmistakable pressure against the seat of her silk undies. As Roman began to stir, let out a low, gravelly sigh against the nape of her neck, the pressure only increased, hardening into a clear indication of his body's morning disposition.
"Roman!" she hissed, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled a sunset. She tried to wiggle forward, but his grip only tightened, his fingers splaying across her stomach.
"Don't move," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and dangerously deep. He didn't sound apologetic; he sounded hungry. He buried his face in the messy blonde tangle of her hair, inhaling deeply. "You're soft. And you smell like my bourbon. Stay."
"Roman, you have... a situation," she whispered, her heart starting to race for entirely different reasons than a hangover. "And it's currently poking me. Let go, you brute."
"It's a natural biological response to having a beautiful woman in my bed," he hummed, his lips finally finding the sensitive skin of her shoulder. He began to trail slow, deliberate kisses up her neck, his stubble grazing her skin in a way that made her breath hitch.
He didn't stop at kisses. He nipped at the junction where her neck met her shoulder, a small, sharp love bite that sent a jolt of pure arousal straight to her core. Violet let out a soft, traitorous whimper, her eyes fluttering shut as her resolve began to melt like ice under a summer sun. She felt his hand slide lower, his touch bold and possessive, as he turned her slightly in his arms to face him.
"I told you," Roman rasped, his blue eyes darkened with a heavy, morning lust. "Once he's gone, you're mine. I'm just getting a head start on the paperwork."
He leaned in, his lips a breath away from hers, and for a second, the world outside- the Prince, the lawsuit, the broken window, ceased to exist.
THUD-THUD-THUD.
The door burst open with the force of a small hurricane.
"DADDY! VIOLET! IT'S PANCAKE DAY!"
Adam launched himself onto the bed like a guided missile, landing squarely between them. The romantic tension shattered instantly, replaced by the chaotic energy of a five-year-old. Roman let out a frustrated growl, burying his face in his pillow as Violet scrambled to pull the duvet up to her chin, her hair a wild nest around her flushed face.
"Pancakes, Ace? Really?" Roman muttered into the fabric.
"With the blue sprinkles!" Adam shouted, bouncing on the mattress. "Violet, you're in Daddy's bed! Does that mean you're a team now?"
Violet caught Roman's eye over Adam's head. He looked half-murderous and half-amused, a smirk playing on his lips despite the interruption. "We're working on it, buddy," Roman said, reaching out to ruffle his son's hair. "Go tell the chef to start the griddle. We'll be down in ten."
Two hours later, the domestic warmth of pancake breakfast was a distant memory.
Roman sat in his office, the air cold and sharp. Across from him sat Miller, his lead private investigator, a man who looked like he was made of shadow and secrets. On the desk between them sat a fresh stack of surveillance photos.
"He landed at 4:00 AM, sir," Miller said, tapping a photo of a sleek private jet with a royal crest on the tail. "Prince Frankie. He's checked into the penthouse suite at the Grand Regency. He brought a six-man security detail- all ex-military, all high-tier. He isn't here for a vacation."
Roman's jaw tightened so hard a muscle pulsed in his cheek. The protective jealousy he had voiced the night before while drunk was now a cold, sober reality. The man who claimed to own Violet was in his city, breathing his air, staying only a few miles away from his gates.
"He's here for her," Roman said, his voice a low, lethal vibration. "He thinks he can just walk in and reclaim his 'property.'"
"He's been asking questions at the Lily," Miller added. "He knows she's been seen with you. He's currently using his diplomatic status to try and bypass the local police reports regarding the break-in."
Roman stood up, walking to the window and looking out over the estate. He felt a primal urge to go to the Regency and tear the Prince apart with his bare hands, but he knew this war required more than just violence. It required a surgical strike.
"Miller, pick your brain for me," Roman said, not turning around. "How do we end it? I want that marriage license turned to ash. I want it legally dissolved in a way that he can never contest. I don't care about the cost. I want her free, and I want her free now."
Miller shifted in his seat. "It's complicated, sir. It's a foreign royal contract. Normally, it's ironclad. But... the auction. The fact that she was sold. That's human trafficking under international law, even if it was dressed up as a 'dowry.' If we can prove the financial transaction and the lack of consent, we can void it on the grounds of duress and illegality."
"Do it," Roman commanded, turning back to his desk, his eyes burning with a dark, possessive light. "Find the bank records. Find the men who were in that room. Threaten them, buy them, I don't care. If Frankie wants to play Prince, he's about to find out that a Thorne has more power than a throne."
He looked at the photo of Frankie- the arrogant sneer, the dark eyes. Roman felt a surge of territorial fury. This man had haunted Violet's dreams for years, had made her run across the country, had made her afraid of her own name.
"He's not getting her back, Miller," Roman whispered, more to himself than the investigator. "He's going to leave this city with nothing but a bill for his own funeral if he touches her."
Roman sat back down, his mind already three steps ahead. He needed to keep Violet- his 'S,' inside the gates. He needed to keep her distracted. And he needed to make sure that when Frankie finally made his move, he was walking into a trap designed by a man who had nothing left to lose and a woman to win.
"One more thing," Roman said as Miller rose to leave. "Keep a tail on him 24/7. If he so much as buys a flower, I want to know the species and the color."
"Understood, sir."
As the door closed, Roman leaned back, his hand straying to his neck where Violet had kissed him the night before. The hunt was no longer just about a name. It was about a life.