You don't do violence, Francesca, not unless it's self-defense or in defense of our family. I won't have that on your soul. You're going to be my wife. The mother of my children. You're about love and...
Where was her sharp intellect? She relied on her brain. She could think fast and was good at details. When Vittorio was around, the only details she could remember were how his smile was so beautiful...
Where the fuck is your coat? His voice was pitched low. Soft. It sounded menacing, as if all his anger was directed at her because she didn't have on a coat.
Vittorio had recognized early on he had a gift. His voice could be compelling, or commanding, and those in a room reacted to it. He could calm others down, arouse or infuriate, all with his tone.
There was always a trail, skin cells, a scent, thermal imaging, parts left behind that the riders called prints. Sometimes those proved helpful when tracking an individual, especially if they were fre...
The life was lonely, regimented, dangerous and formidable. Now that he had Grace in his life, even for a short few weeks, he wasn't willing to go back to that stark, lonely existence.
Someone to care about him. Someone to be his center. Someone to make him feel alive and passionate about living.
She was...salvation. Everything good. She lit up a room just as she lit up his life.
She took a slow look around her at Stefano's siblings. All of them stood as still as statues. Beautiful, gorgeous specimens of human beings, tough and dangerous, waiting for her signal, completely pre...
She had the strangest need, almost a compulsion, to shield Ricco from his brother's scrutiny. From all of them. She sensed he detested appearing weak in front of anyone, but especially his family.
She had no idea what a gift she'd just given him. She was the one he'd searched for. She was the one he hadn't believed could possibly exist. She had strength, a backbone of steel, and yet she could p...
She cleared her throat. I dont like that sort of thing. [...] What sort of thing? His gaze dropped to her mouth. Held there. [...]The F-word sort of thing. She blurted it out, saying the first thing t...
Once he had told her he wanted her to stay, she'd been lost in the wonder of that. No one ever wanted her. No one.
It wasn't about a women's weight, it was about who they were, if that brightness shone through their eyes and skin and hair. Ricco found beauty in art. Women were a form of art. All shapes and sizes....
It was strange, that feeling of freedom, as if by tying her, he released her spirit--beaten down, so encased in the beliefs of others, what was right, what was wrong, what she was-- so that she could...
His voice. It was beautiful. Low. Soothing, yet the same time, there was absolute command, as if he ruled the world and knew it.
Her family, the ones so gracious and honorable to take in two orphans, were harsh with her for her own good so she wouldn't become the whore her mother had been.
He was lonely. He wanted his own family. A wife. Children. Someone to come home to. Someone to care for, to take care of. He needed a purpose. His lifestyle had no balance. He needed someone to become...
He was a shadow rider and that meant no one, 'no one' other than family, and even then close family, could the truth about him. She had to be in completely. Committed to him.
He knew she was already lost. HIS. He'd never thought he'd really have a chance at finding a woman of his own, one he could love and center his world around, one who would accept him and his fucked-up...