Who's Crying Now, Ex-Husband?

The salty wind whipped through the air, and somewhere a band played wild, triumphant music.

A chaotic crowd buzzed around the orange sports car, where a woman in a white dress and veil clung to the neck of a man in sunglasses. Mila's heart was still pounding from the adrenaline when his low, teasing voice brushed her ear. For a moment, everything else fell away into silence.

Then fury snapped her back to reality.

Of all times, he chose now to flirt?

Anger and fear warred inside her. Without thinking, Mila tightened her grip around the man's neck, pulled herself up, and slammed her forehead into his.

Bastard!

Lysander didn't even flinch. He leaned into her headbutt, laughter rumbling in his chest.

"My dear wife."

"Oh, come on! Could you save the heroics for later and just drive?" A tense male voice burst from the driver's seat.

Mila looked up and finally noticed the red-haired man at the wheel, spinning the car as he grinned back at her.

"Hey, gorgeous, I'm Francis-"

Smack!

Lysander reached over and whacked Francis on the back of the head. "Drive. We need to get off this island. Now."

"You'd drop dead for a pretty face, you hopeless dog!" Francis shot back, but he knew time was running out. This was Cossio's territory; if they lingered, they'd be in real trouble. Without another word, he grabbed the megaphone and shouted out the window:

"Everyone, let's move!"

A wild chorus erupted from the convoy of luxury cars, and the drummers perched atop the vehicles hammered out a thunderous rhythm. The car formation curved, not to escape just yet, but to wedge themselves between the crowd and the rest of the waiting cars.

Then, with a vroom, the orange convertible shot forward.

Mila found herself pressed into Lysander's arms, the wind lashing her hair as she glanced over her shoulder.

She saw it all in one stark image:noveldrama

In front of the smoke-wreathed church, on a carpet of black roses, Cossio stood out-rigid, his green eyes locked onto her. His face, icy moments ago, was strangely composed now, his gaze unnervingly intense.

The instant their eyes met, Mila shivered. It was as if something cold and ancient had reached inside her, freezing her to the core.

A moment later, a warm hand slid around her waist, shielding her, and Lysander's palm gently covered her eyes.

"Don't look at him."

She pressed her lips together and didn't resist.

Holding her close, Lysander lifted his head and met Cossio's stare across the crowd-his fox-sharp eyes meeting the other man's emerald gaze, neither of them backing down, both faces unreadable yet edged with something dangerous.

After a long beat,

Cossio's gaze flicked to Mila's back. His green eyes darkened, and his blood-red lips curled in a faint, taunting smile. Then, mouthing the words in English, he said soundlessly:

"You lost again, boy."

Lysander's eyes narrowed.

Before he could reply, a thunderous crash sounded behind them. A black motorcycle smashed through the convoy, tearing open a gap, and several bikes roared through, engines howling as they closed in on the orange car.

"Francis!" Lysander barked.

"On it, on it!"

Francis wove the sports car through the crowd. The roaring engine warned people aside, clearing a path, but the bikes were faster-agile, relentless. One rider on the back swung a metal rod straight for Francis, trying to force the car off the road, heedless of the danger.

Their orders were clear: take them alive. Nothing else mattered.

CRASH!

The rod whistled through the air, but in a flash, a muscled arm shot out from beside Mila. Lysander, still holding her with one arm, swung a baseball bat with the other, knocking the weapon aside and sending the motorcycle careening into a flowerpot.

He was like a beast unleashed.

Mila had seen so many sides of this man-calm, refined, angry, confident, always in control. But never like this: brutal, overpowering, a force of nature that made the air around him vibrate.

She remembered the Montgomery family was full of soldiers; Lysander had grown up in that world. Of course he could fight. She'd just never seen him go all out.

Except, perhaps, in one other place.

Thinking back, she realized the only times she'd seen him this fierce... were in bed, when he could drive her utterly beyond endurance.

For seven years, every argument, every disagreement between them had always ended the same way—with him, in bed, refusing to let go.

Just the memory made her hands tighten instinctively in his shirt. As if sensing her unease, Lysander set the bat aside, breathing hard, and gently rubbed the back of her head, burying her against his burning-hot chest.

"Did I scare you?"

Mila stayed silent, lips pressed together.

Her mind was a blur. She didn't know what to say. But pressed close, listening to

the steady, powerful beat of his heart, she felt something she almost hated to

admit: not fear, but a strange, unexpected sense of safety.

They hadn't escaped the island yet, but suddenly she was sure—

They'd make it out.

Francis whooped from the front, excitement bubbling in his voice. "Lysander,

we're good! Ready when you are—”"