Her gaze tracked his bleeding face, and he saw the worry in her eyes. Saw the way her hand lifted to touch. To soothe. “I thought I might help.”
His brows rose as she climbed into the ring and faced her brother. “You, Christopher, are an ass, and still the child you were when I left you twelve years ago.”
Kit’s gaze grew dark and foreboding. “Well, this child would have destroyed your duke if you hadn’t distracted us.”
She ignored the words and the glee in them. “How unfortunate, then, that I did distract you.” She looked around the room, taking in the hundreds of men who had come for the fight. Who had taken pleasure in watching Temple fall. “Let’s make it easy, shall we?”
Kit smirked. “Please.”
“One final blow. Whoever lands it wins.”
Her brother’s gaze flickered to Temple, battered and bloody. “I think that’s fair. If I win, I go free. And I should have my money.”
She turned to him, something warm and wonderful in her eyes, and he wanted this fight over more than anything he’d ever wanted. Because he wanted her. Now. Forever. “Temple?”
He no longer cared what happened to Lowe as long as Mara was his. He nodded. “I’ve always said you were an excellent negotiator.”
She smiled at that. “Excellent.”
And then damned if the woman he loved didn’t turn back to her brother and lay him flat. With one punch.
She was an excellent student.
Kit dropped to his knees, wailing from the pain. “You broke my nose!”
“You deserved it.” She stared down at him. “And you lose.” Asriel and Bruno were already entering the ring to ensure that Lowe did not leave the club. “Now I name my terms. You will stand trial. For the attempted murder of a duke.” She looked to Temple. “My duke.”
Her duke.
He was that.
He was whatever she wished.
Temple covered his shock with feigned disinterest. “It was almost over, anyway.”
She nodded, approaching him, not seeming to care that he was bruised and bloody. “I’ve no doubt you would have won. But I grew tired of waiting for that as well.”
“You are impatient today.”
“Twelve years is a long time to wait.”
He stilled. “To wait for what?”
“For love.”
Christ. She loved him. He came at her, caught her in his arms. “Say that again.”
And she did, in his ring. In front of the entire membership of The Fallen Angel. “I love you, William Harrow, Duke of Lamont.”
His unashamed, avenging queen. He stole her lips in a long, lush kiss, wanting her to understand now, and forever, just how much he loved her and she poured her love for him into the caress.
When he lifted his head, it was to press his forehead to hers. “Tell me again.”
She did not misunderstand. “I love you.” Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, reaching up to touch the place where his eye swelled shut. “He hurt you terribly.”
“It will heal.” He captured her fingers, pressed a kiss to them. “All things heal. Tell me again.”
She blushed. “I love you.”
He rewarded the honesty with another deep, soul-stealing kiss. And when he pulled away, he said, “Good.”
She put her hands to his chest, gently, her words matching the touch. “I couldn’t leave you. I thought I could. I thought it was for the best, that it would give you the life you wanted. Your wife. Your children. Your—”
He stopped the words with his kiss. “No. You are my legacy.”
She shook her head. “I thought that it would wipe the slate clean. That you could once again be the Duke of Lamont, and I could fade away—and never bother you again. But I couldn’t do it.” She shook her head. “I wanted you too much.”
His heart pounded at the thought of her fading away, and he tilted her face up to his. “Hear me, Mara Lowe. There is only one place for you. Here. In my arms. In my life. In my home. In my bed. If you were to leave, you would not give me the life I wanted. You would leave my life with an enormous, empty chasm at the center of it.”
He kissed her again, and said, softly, “I love you. I think I’ve loved you from the moment you attacked me on a dark London street. I love your strength and your beauty and your way with children and piglets.” She smiled, tears welling in her eyes. “You left your gloves at the home.”
“My gloves?”
He lifted her hands in his, pressing kisses to each set of bare knuckles. “The fact that you don’t wear them makes me at once mad with frustration and mad with desire.”
She looked down at her hands. “My bare hands make you mad with desire?”
“Everything about you makes me mad with desire,” he said. “Chase has Lavender, by the way.”
Confusion flashed in her beautiful eyes. “Why does Chase have Lavender?”