“I love you, Molly,” he said, as if he was taking a solemn vow. “I’ve never loved anyone else. I’ve never known how. And I’m nothing if not single-minded. If you let me, I will dedicate my life to learning how to love you so well, so deeply, and so perfectly, that you never question for a moment that you are anything but adored. Never stupid. Never naive. Simply mine, from the start.”
She blew out a breath, feeling that tremor inside of her loom again, but Molly knew what it was now. She wasn’t afraid of it.
There was heat, and her endless need for him. And beyond that, or mixed in with it, that something else that had always been there. That had pushed her along this path until she’d found him again. That had made her excited to face him in Skiathos when she should have been anything but.
And she’d named it now, hadn’t she? Or he had.
It was love. It had always been love.
Just waiting there all this time for the two of them to see it.
“You silly man,” she said softly, and smiled when his arrogant brow rose. Because he was still Constantine Skalas, after all. And would she love him if he wasn’t? “You’re here. You came after me and thundered in the street. You look tortured, as you should. And I’m tempted to say I already feel sufficiently adored.”
“That’s just the beginning, Molly,” he promised her hoarsely.
“But,” she interrupted him. She pulled her chin out of his grasp and smiled at him in the cool way she knew he would take as a challenge. And sure enough, saw his gaze grow brighter. “I’m afraid there are consequences for outrageous revenge plots.”
“Consequences?” he repeated.
“In life, there are always consequences, Constantine,” she said breezily, echoing something he’d said to her what seemed like a lifetime ago. “You might not like them, but there are consequences all the same.”
He considered her for a long moment, and then, slowly and wonderfully, he grinned.
“Never let it be said that Constantine Skalas cannot face the necessary consequences of his choices,” he drawled. “I live for them, in fact.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She gave him her most imperious, most Magda look. “Why don’t we start with a little abject groveling?”
“I wouldn’t know where to begin,” he said, though his eyes gleamed.
“I think you do know,” she said. She waved a languid hand. “You can start naked, obviously. And we’ll move along from there.”
Constantine’s grin widened. She thought he might balk, but instead, he merely stripped off his T-shirt and tossed it at her. Molly found herself laughing as she batted it away from her face, and then she stood there, feeling buoyant and joyful and fizzy with it, as he toed off his shoes, rid himself of his jeans, and then presented himself before her, beautifully naked.
And undeniably hers.
“This is a very good start indeed,” she told him.
“You have no idea.”
And then Constantine showed her his version of a grovel.
He knelt there before her, drawing one leg over his shoulder so he could lick her straight over the edge.
Into her first hint of forever.
And true to his word, that was only the beginning.
CHAPTER TWELVE
TEN YEARS LATER, Constantine sat on the lowest terrace down the cliff from his Skiathos house, waiting for his wife.
These days, he savored the waiting period.
First Molly had taught him to love. Then she taught him to grieve, and he had. It had taken time. It had been a journey, as he’d learned grief often was. Nor did it ever go away. Not really.
But only once he’d allowed himself to truly face what he had lost had he found hope. Laughter. And the wholeness of love. The good and the bad all mixed in together to make a life.
There, in the arms of this woman he did not deserve, who had forgiven him and loved him and given herself to him like pearls before the swine he was, Constantine Skalas learned at last how to be himself.
Just him.
For her.
The path had not always been easy. But then, what worth having in this life was ever easy?
They’d fought. They had gone through dark times both of their making and imposed upon them from without, but they’d come through it stronger. Closer.
All of it possible because of Molly, Constantine knew.
He became a brother to Balthazar, and in time, a friend. He and Molly had married on the same island where Balthazar had taken his own bride, and all four of them found a new future. And built a new kind of Skalas family, drenched deep in the love they’d worked so hard to find.
When their mother finally slipped away, some five years ago, Balthazar and Constantine had stood together, shoulder to shoulder, and allowed themselves to mourn.
Constantine and Molly had spent this far brighter decade building themselves the marriage they wanted. Then adding to it with the children Constantine had only ever wanted with her. Molly had retired Magda when she felt the time was best, and was considering the many offers she’d received, looking for what moved her. In the meantime, she was as stunning as he’d imagined she’d be, big with his daughters. Three in rapid succession, and then a squalling little thunderstorm of a son to cap off their collection.
And with Isabel as their magical, marvelous grandmother, Constantine knew that his son and his daughters would live the kind of life he could admit, now, he wished he’d had all along. His children were loved, and they knew it. His children were happy, and he worked hard to make sure they would always remain as close to that state as possible.
His children saw, every day, that he loved and honored and respected their mother. And that she loved him back. That their parents laughed and danced, fought
