The Don’s Veiled Rose

The day the Thorne family announced our engagement, the New York underworld let out a collective sigh of relief.

Because I was set to marry Daemon, the most straitlaced Don in the city, which meant I could no longer be the wild rose who tore up the racetrack.

But I resisted with every fiber of my being, finding creative ways to test his limits.

During his ten-million-dollar card game with a rival family's Capo, my hand "slipped" and sent a bottle of 1945 Romanee-Conti spilling across the ancient map that outlined their territories, sabotaging the entire negotiation.

Daemon, however, just slowly and deliberately wiped the wine from the back of his hand. He didn't even frown as he cleaned up my mess.

Then I "accidentally" let my spirited Arabian stallion loose in his immaculately manicured courtyard. The beast went wild, trampling his prize-winning rose garden into mud.

But he arrived with his private doctor in tow, crouching before me as his long fingers gently traced the scratch on my arm.

"Did the beast hurt you?"

Just that one question, and my heart melted completely.

"Daemon, I can marry you. But before that, has there ever been another woman who owned your heart?"

"I don't share my man. Not in any way."

He pointed to his heart, his gaze unwavering as he met my eyes. "Before you, this was empty."

After we married, the word on the street in New York's circles of power was this:

If you angered Don Thorne, his Donna might plead your case. But if you angered the Donna, you were on your own.

Even I began to believe that Daemon, that mountain of ice, would eventually melt for me.

Until the day I went to find him, clutching a positive pregnancy test, bursting with joy.

Only to hear the family's Consigliere ask him, from the top-floor study, what the best lie he'd ever told was.

Daemon chuckled and said casually,

"She asked me if anyone had my heart before her."

"I told her no."

The day the Thorne family announced our engagement, the New York underworld let out a collective sigh of relief.

Because I was set to marry Daemon, the most straitlaced Don in the city, which meant I could no longer be the wild rose who tore up the racetrack.

But I resisted with every fiber of my being, finding creative ways to test his limits.

During his ten-million-dollar card game with a rival family's Capo, my hand "slipped" and sent a bottle of 1945 Romanee-Conti spilling across the ancient map that outlined their territories, sabotaging the entire negotiation.

Daemon, however, just slowly and deliberately wiped the wine from the back of his hand. He didn't even frown as he cleaned up my mess.

Then I "accidentally" let my spirited Arabian stallion loose in his immaculately manicured courtyard. The beast went wild, trampling his prize-winning rose garden into mud.

But he arrived with his private doctor in tow, crouching before me as his long