Free Talon (Ashes & Embers Book 4) by Carian Cole

dandelion in her fingers.
    "Hey, I'm sorry," I say when I reach her. "He's a sarcastic asshole."
    "I guess we won't be living here," she mutters, then closes her eyes and blows on the dandelion, opening them again to watch its little seeds floating away in the breeze with a wistful expression on her face. I think she wants to float away too. Away from me.
    I hold my hand out to her and pull her up when she puts her small hand in mine. "Definitely not, babe. Let's go visit your place."
    "Can we just skip that? There's really no reason for us to go to my place. You're not gonna want to live there."
    "No, I want to see where you live. And it’s in the guidelines. We're supposed to visit each other's homes."
    She blows out a frustrated sigh. "I don't understand why we have to do this. It's a waste of time," she argues as we walk back to the truck. "Can't we just look for our own place?"
    I lift her up into the passenger seat again. "You don't want me to see your house, do you?"
    Her eyes dart away from me nervously. "It's an apartment."
    "House, apartment, whatever. You don't want me there. Why not?"
    "I never said that."
    "You don't have to. You're transparent as fuck. It's written all over your face."
    Her eyes shoot daggers as I lean against the truck door, not budging.
    "Let's just go, then," she relents. "And get this over with."
    As she gives me directions to her apartment while I drive, her reasons for not wanting me there become clear. She lives in the ghetto. Like, I used to buy drugs here when I was younger, it's that kind of shitty neighborhood.
    I glance over at her as I park in front of the run-down apartment building. She's just staring out the window, her fingers making circles on her jeans. "Are you okay?" I ask her.
    "Yeah. I'm fine."
    She doesn't sound fine, though. She sounds distant.
    "Asia, it's okay. No big deal."
    "You don't belong here."
    "Neither do you. Not anymore."
    Her eyes shift down to the floor. "Yeah, I do. Marrying you doesn't change who I am."
    "No, but it changes who we are together," I grab her hand to stop her fingers from nervously circling on her leg. "Together, we're supposed to be better."
    What the fuck just came out of my mouth?
    Her hand squeezes mine. "That's very sweet. Thank you for saying that."
    Wow. I actually said something right, even though I was momentarily possessed by Hallmark when I said it. Score.
    As luck would have it, the elevator is broken, so we have to walk up the three flights of trash-infested stairs to her apartment. The hallway smells like the pit of hell. I can't believe the team put me with someone who lives like this. We could not be more different in every possible way.
    As she digs her keys out of her bag and unlocks the three locks on the door, I worry about my truck parked out on the street in this neighborhood. If someone breaks my windows or spray-paints graffiti on my truck, I'm going to be pissed.
    An unexpected pang hits me when we finally walk inside. Her apartment is incredibly small. So tiny I feel like I have to go outside just to change my mind. And it's suddenly painfully clear to me—my new wife does not have much of anything. I feel bad now for taking her to my huge condo in a gated community and whining about the clutter in the 2,500 square feet of space Mikah and I share, and mostly wreck. I can't help but wonder if one of the reasons they put us together is because I have money and can get her out of here. And I also wonder if she did this for the money we'll receive and not to find a life partner. She doesn't seem like the using type, but damn, fifty grand has to be tempting for her. If that's true, so would my multimillion-dollar inheritance and my music royalties. Thankfully, we signed a prenup, so my assets are safe if she turns out to be a gold digger. But a part of me was actually hoping this would turn into a real marriage like my parents have. I don't want to be standing here like an asshole in six months, watching her walk away