ANNABETH SAINT
Marry me.
The words hang between us.
Did my brain melt in the fire? Or did his? "What?"
Devon leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his gaze unyielding. "A contract marriage. Three years."
I let out a weak, disbelieving laugh, which immediately dissolves into a cough. My ribs scream in protest. Devon reaches for the water again, holding the straw to my lips until I steady.
"You're serious."
"Very."
I study him—the hard set of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his fingers flex against his thigh like he's restraining himself from reaching for me again.
The Saint family disowned me. My job—gone. My fiancé—a traitor who left me to burn. My home? I had none.
"Sean and Giselle won't face charges for what happened. Your parents and my aunt already made moves. Between sending in teams of lawyers and suppressing news and social media, they've already created the narrative."
