Saga Novels & Stories

“Do you think I need your money, Alana?” Her heart skipped a beat. “Then… what do you want?” For a moment, the only sound was the rain hitting the windows. Then Sagara leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze locking onto hers like a predator cornering its prey. “You.” Alana froze. “What?” “I don’t want your money,” he repeated slowly. “I want you. Not just your presence for a day or two. I want your time, your attention, your loyalty. If I pay for your grandmother’s surgery, you’ll belong to me—until I say otherwise.”

She assures and I stare at the mobile; my hands moving faster than my mind as I type back a reply. ME: Sinclair? I watch as it changes from delivered to read, and the three dots that indicate he's typing display at the corner of the screen. He's typing! He's fucking typing! Sinclair Leovough is fucking typing! SINCLAIR: Little Greene. Please, come home. I'm at your place. I know you're mad at me, but I need to see you right fucking now. Come to me, baby. Come to me, baby. He's asking me to come to him. To come home to him. And that name— oh lord, this is real? This is fúcking it? My man is fúcking back for me?