The return journey was made in the quiet, leather-scented darkness of Vincent’s Maybach.

Dominic drove, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, a small, satisfied smirk touching his lips every time he looked at the two figures in the back seat.

Vincent was slumped against the leather cushions, his jacket unbuttoned, his head resting back against the headrest, his eyes closed. His right leg was twitching violently—a massive, involuntary muscle spasm caused by the extreme stress he had placed on his damaged nerves.

Nora sat beside him. She had pulled her heavy silk skirt up over her knees, unbuttoned the side latch on his right brace with practiced, expert fingers, and was currently massaging his thigh with both hands.

Her strong, thick fingers drove deep into the tight muscle, working out the knot with steady, relentless pressure.

Vincent let out a long, shuddering groan, his hand reaching out in the dark to grip her knee.

“Better?” she asked softly, her hands never stopping their work.

“No,” he rasped, opening his eyes to look at her in the faint green glow of the dashboard lights. “It hurts like hell.”

“It’s supposed to hurt,” she said. “Dead nerves don't twitch, Vincent. That’s your spinal cord remembering how to talk to your legs.”

He reached down, his fingers wrapping around her wrist, stopping her hands. He pulled her up until she was leaning over him, her face inches from his in the dark cabin.

“You saved my life tonight,” he said quietly.

“I helped you stand up,” she corrected. “You did the walking.”

“I wouldn't have stood up if you hadn't insulted me six months ago,” he said, a faint trace of humor touching his gravelly voice. “You told me to carry my own tray.”

“And you still haven't done it,” she pointed out, her thumb lightly tracing the strap of his left shoe. “I’m still carrying the tray, Vincent.”

“No,” he said, his hand moving up from her wrist to encircle the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in the auburn hair that had slipped from its pins. “You’re not carrying the tray anymore, Nora. You’re coming to the table.”

Nora went still. She looked at his face—at the hard line of his jaw, the deep, dark intensity of his gray eyes, and the absolute honesty resting there without a single shadow of the mob boss or the billionaire.

“Vincent...” she whispered.

“I’m forty years old,” he said, his voice dropping into a deep, rough murmur. “I’ve spent twenty years surrounded by people who lied to me because they were afraid of me, or because they wanted my money. I didn't think there was a single person in this city who saw me instead of the empire.”

He pulled her down an inch closer.

“You saw a broken man throwing a cup,” he murmured. “And you told him to stop feeling sorry for himself.”

“You were being very dramatic about those eggs,” she whispered, a tear finally spilling over her lashes and dropping onto his cheek.

Vincent smiled—a warm, beautiful smile that transformed his sharp face completely. He reached up, caught the tear with his thumb, and then pulled her lips down onto his.

The kiss was deep, slow, and heavy with the weight of six months of unspoken hunger. It wasn't the tentative kiss of two strangers; it was the ferocious, possessive surrender of two people who had fought a war together and survived.

Nora let out a soft sigh into his mouth, her arms wrapping around his massive shoulders, her generous body sinking against his chest as the car swept through the dark gates of the estate.