MARION

The morning light sliced through the curtains, brushing golden streaks across the suite’s grand bed. For a moment, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, then back down at the woman tucked against me.

Demetria.

My Wildfire.

She was still asleep, breathing soft and steady, her curls spilling over my chest like a crown. And all I could think about was the words she’d whispered into me last night.

I love you, Marion Whitfield.

Jesus. Those words had echoed in my skull all night ...