CHAPTER TEN
AINSLEY
T he sky was orange that day. Pillowy clouds of gold puffed up, obscuring the sun, and everything was veiled in tangerine.
The dewy blades of grass. The hazy dust. The windswept treetops and old brick roads.
Even him.
I remember my mind snagging on that detail. It was such a dumb thing to get hung up on, but it felt monumental. Like a sign. That the whole earth was painted in my favorite color on the worst day of my life. Well, not the worst. I knew that. Because he was still with me. The worst would be the day after the goodbye—or so I thought.
We didn’t say much. Both of us were choking on such heavy heartache. But he pulled me into his arms as Keane’s “Somewhere Only We Know” blared from George’s car stereo, and I sobbed against his chest. We swayed together in the parking lot of the senior recreation center. My final slow dance with the boy with amber eyes.
“Tell me not to go,” Josh rasped into my hair.
It was a plea from the man who was my whole world. A plea I didn’t think I could fulfill.
Every cell of my makeup wanted to run and never look back, to assure him that a future of being with him was enough, but I didn’t. My father’s orders coiled around me like a noose.
I’m not sure if it was fear or lofty aspirations that won out that day. But it wasn’t us.
I let Josh kiss me and hold me and never gave him a reason to stay, even though I had countless reasons that meant everything. Far more than anything we could have possibly gained from the separation.
That was the moment I had it all.
And I let it go.
The last day I was truly alive, the world was bathed in orange. Every day since has been an apocalyptic gray.
That dance-at-dusk vision is swimming in my mind as I scour the pantry for a snack and find a glass jar filled with orange Sour Skittles. Wells must not like those. I see him sifting through his pack all the time. With all the candy floating around here, I’m grateful no one has a penchant for black licorice, the same nauseating smell as anise pizzelles and imprisonment.
Pulling out the jar, I set it on the counter and find a cup I can put some in to take to my room. But as I’m scooping them out, a shriek startles the bejesus out of me and sends the candy flying.
A geyser of orange pellets rains through the pristine kitchen.
“You’re eating the orange?” Rena bellows, and when I turn to see her, those hazel eyes of hers are wide and wild.
Dear Lord, I’m thirty years old and about to get reprimanded by a Bratz doll for stealing candy.
That’s not a mean-girl thought. I actually adored Bratz dolls.
“Sorry,” I apologize, feeling like an unwanted houseguest as I gather the rolling Skittles from the counter. “I didn’t know they were being saved for something. And orange is my fav—”
“They were,” she sings while attacking me. Full-on bear hug, clamping my arms to my sides as Wells, Ty, and Celeste swagger in. “For you. You’re the missing piece. I knew it.”
Missing piece slices right into my soul. It’s what Josh used to tell me I was in his life, which meant more than anything ever had. And this hug is a close second. Other than Josh and George, I’ve never had anyone clutch me like this. Like I belonged to them.
She releases me with one arm to point at Wells. “Ainsley’s favorite is orange.”
Wells chuckles and winks at her from across the room. “I’ll be damned. The missing piece might be right.”
My chest feels tight. I’m not sure why, but acceptance from Wells feels like it would be hard-fought. Is that what’s happening? Or am I the butt of an inside joke?
No. Things with Gage might be rocky, but the girls and I had a lot of fun the other night—the most fun I’ve ever had with women. And Wells doesn’t seem like the disparaging type. Plus, Ty and Celeste are beaming. I’m not sure it’s acceptance, but it’s something.
It’s Rena’s breathless explanation that sets it all straight though. “Wells only eats the red and yellow. And my favorites are green and purple. So, we trade bags, but always have orange leftover.” She giggles. “You complete us.”
Ivy catches the end of that as she struts into the kitchen. “What did I miss? Are we having a Jerry Maguire moment?”
Ty chuckles. “Ainsley had us at hello, Freckles.”
They all bounce off each other in a way that is incredibly intimidating. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. As they fill Ivy in on the profound revelation regarding my candy preference, my heart cracks a little. I can’t risk getting attached here.
“It seems like a flimsy litmus test for acceptance,” I contend as I return to cleaning up the mess, “seeing as how a lot of people like orange.”
“You already passed,” Ty says, “even if you despised candy.”
“A candy addiction doesn’t hurt though,” Wells adds, striding toward me to empty his Skittles bag of leftover orange into the jar.
As he stands beside me, he palms my head. It’s the briefest gesture, but it seeps into my bones. My breath catches in my throat. I’m not sure what to do. I feel frozen.
Out of nowhere, Celeste grabs my elbow and ushers me away, calling out over her shoulder to them, “You guys finish cleaning that up. I need to borrow Ainsley for a sec.”
“What’s happening?” I ask as she drags me down the hall.
“Give it a minute,” she insists as she shoves me into the morning room and shuts the French doors. “Consider this repayment for when you hid me in the closet.”
My brows furrow. “Are we about to be gunned down or attacked by cockroaches? I’m not sure a room with glass walls is the best cover for an ambush.”
“To ease your concern about the more dire of those two scenarios, no cockroaches.” She smiles. “Thank God. But if you hate getting emotional in front of people as much as I do, I consider the save equivalent. Take some time.” She casts a wistful glance back toward the kitchen. “They have a way of breaking down walls.”
“Thanks, Celeste,” I whisper, my chest tightening again.
The camaraderie laced into this save does nothing to quell my welling emotions though.
I’m not sure where Gage is when I swing by his room, but I’m happy he’s not there. I snatch one of his Black Rifle Coffee T-shirts out of his drawer because it seems like a cozy nightgown. This one has a colorful rooster on the front, wearing night-vision goggles and carrying an assault rifle. It has me grinning as I wander back to my bathroom to shower.
While I’m blow-drying my hair, I contemplate my word for the day. It’s a little thing I’ve been doing for years. Other than menus and documents with fine print, I’m more comfortable with reading now. But spelling was never the easiest. So, the tactile Scrabble letters became a method to practice, to challenge myself. Over the years, the words also served as a reminder to fight. Something to keep me going.
Today, I choose orange . A simple word with a complex meaning, especially after the candy debacle.
But when I amble to the desk, the letters are already rearranged. If this house wasn’t full of all these alpha men and their droves of guards outside, I’d be freaking out.
Instead, my chest is cracked wide open as I read them.
Maybe it’s because it’s written with the tiles, but it seems so genuine. A lump of emotion clogs my airway while I try to determine how to respond.
Finally, I saunter over to the closet, shoving the dresser I placed there as a barricade aside. I knew Gage could get past it or use my main door, but it felt like a stance I could take after the blow-job fight. A stance I would have never survived in my old life.
When I peek my head in, he’s sitting up in bed. Gym shorts and T-shirt. Tats everywhere. Glasses on as he reads something on his phone in the dim apricot lighting. And he trimmed his goatee, opting for full-face scruff now. I liked the goatee, but this is sexy too.
He’s gorgeous.
All these years later, and a flurry of butterflies still erupts inside me at the sight of him.
Every inch is sculpted and angry—like his muscles are pissed that his skin is so taut, preventing them from breaking free. That intensity consumes every part of him. It’s alluring because, within that rage, compassion, loyalty, and unwavering determination persist. A need to protect. It’s a remarkable combination. Admirable. Even though I primarily incite the rage.
“Did you forget the E-D?” I ask, referring to how miss was present tense.
His gaze lands on me without skipping a beat. “Nope.”
I mosey inside his room, glancing around at the tasteful decor again. I never got to see how he lived back then, although it certainly wasn’t like this. “That makes it present tense.”
“Yeah.” So, he’s being sweet, but not chatty.
Spinning to fully face him, I hold my breath through the next query. “And that’s true? You do? Or you did? Before.”
That was a jumbled mess. I’m a ball of nerves.
“Always,” he says, removing his glasses for a Clark Kent to Superman transformation.
God, I don’t think I realized how much I needed to hear him say that.
“Always?” I parrot with an embarrassing quaver.
“Yeah.” He grins. It’s the kind of smile that glints like gold because you know it’s a rare treasure—I used to own a trove of them. “Like a Back to the Future space-time continuum.”
That makes me laugh. It was one of the movies they played at the senior recreation center a lot, so we probably saw it a dozen times together.
“And what about hating me?” I probe.
His ambers skate over me—starting with my bare feet to slowly rove up my body—and when they rise to meet mine, there is both hunger and a fierce spark of honesty in them. “That too.”
My heart deflates even though I knew that was the case.
“Okay.” I nod and turn to go back to my room, but his voice—husky and raw—catches me.
“You?”
I grip the molding of the closet entrance and don’t look at him. No words could adequately describe the massive crater he left in my life, but I try. “So much.”
“To which?” he asks.
I was answering the former, but the confusion is valid.
“Both,” I admit, peering back at him. “But until recently, it was only the missing.”
“That’s fair.” He bobs his head like he’s gathering his words. “I’ve given you a lot of reasons to hate me lately.”
I shrug because he has, but I’m not sure I can fault him for his wrath based on his point of view.
He ogles me for so long that I feel naked, like he can see through this T-shirt, which makes my skin heat. “I think we could both use a reprieve.”
“A reprieve?”
“Yes.” He tosses his phone onto the nightstand. “A break from the stress.”
A scoff billows out of me. “The stress on you. From having to house me?”
He meets my scoff with a huff and a glare. “Don’t twist my words. The stress you’re under because of everything you’ve been through and the stress I’m feeling because someone is fucking with you, and I …”
“You what?” I ask, suddenly eager for every thought in his head, but he switches gears.
“Are you scared?”
“Scared?” I roll my lips as I sort through the tangled web of my emotions. “I don’t know … yes. But it’s mixed with too many other feelings to be the star. I’m … surviving.”
“Right.” His deep rasp is strained through that word, which spears me because although I don’t want his pity, I’m desperate for his consolation. But that is a fleeting wish when he issues an out-of-the-blue demand. “Get in.”
The man is giving me whiplash.
“What?” I gasp.
He rips the covers back. “Get in my fucking bed, Wicked.”
A sigh falls from my lips because I thought we were having a moment—not a sexy one. Well, there is always this frisson of electricity between us, but this was more . And I don’t have the energy to do this fucktoy shit with him right now. “I don’t think that’s a good—”
“You walked in here, wearing my goddamn T-shirt, the most beautiful woman in existence—no, beautiful isn’t nearly enough. Fucking … striking. And dressed for me.”
He swallows and glances away while I try in vain to settle my thrashing heart.
Until his repentant gaze sails back to me. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to, but I … after what happened yesterday, I need you with me. Give me this. Tonight, I need to hold you.”
Jesus. Is this a new method of trying to break me? It might just work. I hold my own fighting far better than I will with whatever this unfiltered openness is.
I peer back at my room, knowing I’d lie awake half the night anyway, but also certain that if he dangles a future in front of me, only to snatch it away when he discovers the whole truth, I won’t survive it. “And tomorrow? We go back to hating each other?”
“Maybe.” He studies me intently, and when I don’t budge from my position across the room, he adds, “If you need to hate me, hate me. But I’ve waited a lifetime to fall asleep beside you, so get in the goddamn bed.”
I’m halfway to deceased with one sentence.
Choosing to mask the way that utterly wrecks me, I go with the snark that makes everything easier for both of us. “You’re kind of a bossy dick. You know that?”
“I’m your bossy dick,” he says in an odd mixture of sweet and sour.
Mine?
So much for being unaffected by his words. My sternum melts into my spine.
“Just tonight.” My lip quivers through that assertion, so I quickly bite it back.
“We’ll start there.”
I’m not sure that’s the assurance I need to be certain my heart won’t get completely shattered by whatever this is, but it’s been so long … so long since I’ve been taken care of, let alone held. That’s exactly why it shouldn’t happen, but I’m not ready for this to end. Even the orange-tinted lighting seems to favor that point.
Relishing the way his eyes grow heavy as he watches me move toward him, I climb onto the bed and crawl in his direction as he hisses expletives, and I see how far I can push him. Hating is far less dangerous than hope. I’d prefer to know the embers of our rage are being stoked.
“I still need to add your head to my board. You know …” I flick my attention to his things-that-disgust-him board—or where it used to be—and drop to my ass. “Where is it?”
“I don’t need it anymore,” he answers as though it’s obvious when it absolutely isn’t.
I throw my palm up to him. “If you want me in here because of some misguided notion of pity after what I told you, save it. I’m not—”
“Fucking hell, Ains. Enough,” he barks while lurching forward to hook his palms under my arms before dragging me to him like I’m a ragdoll. “I took it down because it was petty, I was being an asshole, and I don’t want to hold on to that shit anymore.”
“So, you’re just fucking over it?” I snap, rolling out of his grip to straddle him, my hands pinning his shoulders to the headboard in an instant—not really since he could crush me with his pinkie, but I savor the false sense of control.
And the impressed slant of his brows for my quick response.
For some reason, that eggs me on, so I slide my palms to his throat, wrapping my fingers around the sides and imagining what it would be like to be the one with all the power. I never want to be weak again.
A slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips before he pushes against my hold, forcing it tighter as he closes the distance between us, until his face is merely an inch from mine, his arm looping around the small of my back. “If that’s the route you want to go, be very certain. Because I choke back.”
Chills break out over my skin, my heart thrumming enthusiastically at the prospect. And as my core vibrates with eagerness against the thickening bulge in his shorts, that need for strength transforms into something else entirely.
He relaxes against the headboard again, not a care in the world, his ambers sparkling with a haughty challenge. “But I promise, you’ll be seeing stars, clawing for more, and in utter oblivion when I take your breath away.”
Good Lord, why stop at choking? I think he could make murder sound sexy.
Moving my hands back to his shoulders, I push some saliva down my throat while simultaneously trying to banish those titillating visions and steer us back to my ire. “That was a hell of a detour from my simple question. So, again, are you just magically over it?”
“No, I’m not over it, Wicked.” He hurls his arms into the air, losing the composure he seemed to be intent on maintaining. “I’ll probably get pissed about it a hundred more times. I guarantee I’ll fly off the handle, and I’m sure as shit burning that worthless town to the ground after I make them suffer.”
His thumb and index finger grip my chin in a gentle threat. “I haven’t stopped hating you because you apparently have something else to share, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to rip my heart out. So, I’m cautiously feeling this out. But I told you I’m keeping you, and I’m fucking trying.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to try,” I snipe. And that’s the truth. Letting him go for the second time was going to be a hell of a lot easier when he was dismissing me.
He lowers his hand, gliding both rough palms over my bare thighs, which shoots a current of shivers to my aching pussy as he searches me. “Why?”
There’s so much hurt in that simple word from him that my gut wrenches.
“I don’t know.” I throw my hands out, unable to express how everything is upside down and I have no idea how to find my footing. “I just … look, I’m pissed that you left me there and built yourself a new life. But I don’t want your guilt to drive this. I think—”
“I didn’t just leave you there. I couldn’t come back, per my agreement with the CIA.”
My lungs whistle from the sharp intake of air. “What are you talking about?”
“I didn’t erase myself.” He looks off in the distance for his explanation, like he’s reliving it, so I study his subtle expressions. “The guys and I were POWs. We’d been sent on a mission to uncover a terrorist camp. The rest of our fireteam blew up. So, when we escaped, the CIA figured we were perfect candidates to be erased and used as secret weapons. Going back to our hometown or communicating with people we knew was— is —an act of treason. The thing is, the guys didn’t have family, which was a major reason it worked.”
His gaze drifts back to me as he squeezes my thighs. “But I had you. I argued that I needed to get home to you. The general in charge had anticipated my objection and done his research. He told me it was over, showed me your marriage certificate and pictures of the wedding, the two of you at family events, and then of course, there was the funeral. I had a PI follow you for a while, months. I didn’t abandon you. Not exactly. I thought you’d abandoned me.”
That’s a crushing blow. I don’t even have a good reason to hate him. The fact that we had both hurt each other somehow strengthened me. It lessened the burden of what I’d done. But this is just another outcome of the poor choices I made.
Before I risk a sob overtaking me, I shimmy off his lap, but in a blink, he captures my hips, throws me onto my back, and planks over me. Like a WWE wrestler.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going? We’re just getting somewhere.”
I sear him with my steeliest glower because that is a better path for us both. “Nowhere I want to be.”
“Some things never change.” He chuckles—it’s part demented lunatic and part boyish charm, a perplexing mix of everything I desire. “You still can’t rein in that wicked temper. For what it’s worth, government orders or not, I’m sorry. I should’ve—”
“Do not apologize,” I whisper, shifting my focus to the ceiling and praying I don’t crumble beneath him.
“Since you’re sticking around”—he presses every hard inch of his body to mine without fully resting atop me to emphasize my current imprisonment—“why don’t you fill me in, Ains? What am I missing?”
Lust-filled entrapment aside, I do owe him the truth, especially since he’s being so honest with me, but that isn’t what this was supposed to be. “Can we not do that tonight? We’re not hating each other. Remember? And today was … orange.”
“Orange.” He smirks, as though he grasps what I’m saying. He knows that’s my favorite color, and since we were often forced to talk in code, he got me in a way that no one ever had. Maybe all this time apart has changed that, but it still has a ring of truth to it.
He’s silent after that. Surveying me. Goading me. His chest presses into my peaked nipples, and I can feel them hardening with every brush. I’m sure he can too. And his damn coffee-and-caramel scent, with a delectable trace of bourbon, curls around me, making my mouth water. Yearning for the bittersweet burn that only he can provide.
I squirm beneath him, and my hips buck of their own accord. That is all the encouragement he needs.
In some sort of jiu-jitsu move, he secures both wrists above my head, and I’m left wondering if I should knee him in the balls and call it a night.
“You could,” he taunts, as if he can read my damn mind. “Or I could make you come.”
“Hmm. I’ve got a vibrator back in my room, so I think I’ll opt for both. Maiming you before I buzz my way to blacked-out bliss. That’s a recipe for ecstasy if I’ve ever heard one.”
He shakes his head, that psychotic smile blasting across his face again. “That’ll be hard since there are no toys in your room, Wicked.”
Rage boils my blood as I fight against his beastly hold. “Are you fucking kidding me right now?”
“I want you in here with me,” he says. “I’ll be moving all your things over. Seemed a good place to start.”
Sincere. And infuriating.
“Sounds like maiming you is my only viable option then.” I wriggle beneath him as though I’m about to hammer his precious jewels.
While one hand keeps hold of my wrists, his other rakes along the curves of my body with obscene promises, and his eyes never avert from mine. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. Your threats turn me on. I’m more than willing to bleed for you.”
I’m not sure if he means that solely in a sexual manner. Either way, he’s depraved, but clearly, so am I because my panties are soaked at the thought.
“That can be arranged,” I hiss. Unfortunately, there’s little bite to it.
His cock jerks against my hip, but his ambers are seeking, pleading. “Tell me to touch you.”
And that’s it. The request. The willingness to wait for my response. The adoration painted on his features, no matter how much I fight.
A dagger and a drug.
All I want is more.
Still, I push back. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you know I can give you everything you need,” he answers.
There’s a part of me that doesn’t want to admit that’s true, that would rather keep fighting, but the other part of me needs it. Needs him .
“Touch me,” I rush out. It’s an unmistakable plea—not that I’d cop to that—but somehow, in his embrace, it doesn’t feel weak.
His hand crawls under my T-shirt, ripping my panties off without pretense—a swift tear from my body. He balls up the shredded fabric and brings it to his nose to breathe it in with a groan while my jaw unhinges.
In the next second, he tosses them aside, plunges two fingers inside me, and whirls over my throbbing clit. “Fuck, Ains. So damn wet. Your cunt still weeps like this for me?”
His words are filthy but vulnerable, and they slam into me with a mountain of bewildering emotions.
“Only for you,” I assure him.
He pulls his glistening fingers up to his mouth, the loss from them filling me utterly devastating. But then he sucks and gawks at me. “So fucking sweet. I could have replaced miss with crave . I’ve been craving the taste of your delicious pussy for eleven years.”
Christ Almighty. I might come from watching him sample me.
But again, that simple act crashes into my heart and core in equal measure, so I deflect as his fingers return to their tango on my clit. “So, Wells is the head of the Cabrini family. Does he know—”
“Yeah.” He nods, unfazed by my change in topic and perfectly capable of multitasking. “I told him when we were POWs.”
“And he didn’t care?”
“He cared.” He slants his head with that response, as if to say Wells cared a lot. “But he didn’t fault me.” His eyes latch on to mine, and it doesn’t feel like he’s talking about Wells anymore. “I told the truth and proved my loyalty. And then we moved forward.”
“Fuck,” I mumble when he hits a spot inside me that is fresh territory. “Right there.”
“Yeah?” His lips coast over my jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath my ear, his breath cascading over me to issue another realm of tingles. “That’s my filthy girl. Fuck my hand.”
His girl is nearly too much for my brain to process.
I flash a coy grin as though I’m not teetering on the edge of euphoria and bait him with an ego boost. “And these massive muscles—when did they happen?”
His eyebrows dance as he thrusts a third finger into me, rendering me alarmingly full and filling the room with the chorus of my sloshing arousal. “You been checking me out, Wicked?”
A gritty moan flies from my lungs, but I do my best to manage another quippy response. “You could call it that if it makes you feel better. I’d say it’s more like scientific intrigue for how a man triples in size.”
“Right.” He winks, his thumb doubling down on my clit in a dizzying spin. “Well then, for your research, it was after SEALs. When I became the enforcer for our business and was driven by coffee, vengeance, and performance enhancements.”
He’s going all in on the honesty, I see.
“So, you were a POW, erased by the government, and re-created, which afforded you a family, billions”—I float my hazy focus around his bedroom, noting the grandeur, especially considering it’s one of sixteen—“and a physique like The Rock.”
“Well, there may have been a few more steps in there, but we can cover those another time,” he rasps as I whimper from the growing intensity. “Let’s get you what you need. Your pussy is making a mess all over my hand.”
With that, he lowers his chin and bites my nipple right through the shirt, delivering the delicious pain that my pleasure covets as a companion. My hips fly up to meet his with a shriek, and he accelerates the dips and pumps and swirls in a pattern that has me heady and crazed and unabashedly fucking his hand.
“Hold on, baby. I’ve got my own toys.” He pauses, reaching for something and chuckling when I moan for more, lifting my pelvis in search of what I need.
But then he presents me with an Italian stiletto knife. Those heels women love are named after the weapon in his hand. It’s long, phallic, and a staple with Italian gangsters.
And maybe a sign that this is about to turn ugly. Although even as my pulse kicks up, I can’t seem to fear him the way I should.
Lowering it to where his fingers ceased their glorious rhythm, he forces the cool steel to circle my clit, which zaps through me, rocketing me back to the very edge I was just teetering on.
“You can take the boy out of the Mob, but not the Mob out of the boy,” I tease. “You gonna make me come and then kill me?”
“I could,” he says, thrusting the handle of the knife inside so it grazes my G-spot with tantalizing friction before sinking deeper.
He slides it in and out. Again and again. Cool and crisp against my warmth.
Divine.
The sensation is otherworldly. Maybe it’s how he works it or …
“I’m not a good man, Ains. Like the instrument of death in my hand, which is a weapon itself, I am always capable of extinguishing life in a second.”
I buck my hips, and my eyes flutter closed while I fuck my way to death or ecstasy, whichever finds me first. I just don’t want it to stop.
“That’s my girl.” He quickens his pumps with the unforgiving stiletto and his massage on my clit. “Chase it. Because deep down, you know I’ll only ever bring you pleasure.”
Yeah, that’s it. He could hurt me, but he won’t.
My lids flick open in utter reverence. “I’m gonna come, Gage.”
The room blurs to nothing but orange and amber, stars and light, shaking limbs and breathless gasps while I plummet from a mind-blowing precipice.
“That’s it, Ains. So beautiful when you come with my name on those pretty lips,” he coos as I tremble from the aftershocks and attempt to find some balance.
Crave is accurate. That was insane, but I need him inside me, to fill every hole, like he promised the other day.
It’s all Gage. Everywhere. In every thought, beat, cell.
Which sends me into an utter panic as my breathing settles.
He props himself up beside me, devouring the remnants of my climax off his glistening fingers and spectacular toy while grinning like the Mad Hatter. The lewd act is even more alluring when he returns for seconds, dipping his fingers back inside me to collect more of my cum and gliding them over his tongue with a growl.
Jesus.
“I’m clean,” he announces out of nowhere, clearing his throat, like the words are stuck. “I should have used protection or offered—”
“You mean a condom?” I ask, realizing he’s not referring to his fingers, but to our rendezvous in the rain.
He’s probably freaked out about me being with Nick. Valid for a myriad of reasons. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind though. It probably should have, but survival mode makes ordinary concerns feel like luxuries you can’t afford.
“Yeah,” he says, smoothing my matted hair off my forehead.
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” I assure him. “I’m clean too. I paid a gynecologist about eight months ago to diagnose me with severe endometriosis so that I couldn’t … or at least so he wouldn’t want to … I was tested after that.”
His body stiffens, and the fury rolling off him in waves is unmistakable. This is why I doubt we could ever be anything again. There’s too much between us. And when I tell him about the baby … well, there will be no turning back. Or moving forward.
Once he calms himself, his hand splays across my stomach, curling over my hip to nudge me closer. “There are a lot more of those in store. I’ll keep you dizzy and breathless till morning,” he boasts. “But I’m not fucking you tonight because I need you to know you’re more than a fucktoy. That I want you in my bed for reasons far beyond that, no matter what else is between us. But it is an act of superhuman strength. You are, without a doubt, the sexiest, most intoxicating—and most infuriating—woman I’ve ever known.”
The breath I held through those soul-stirring sentences blasts out of me, but I need to steer us back on track. It’s all my sanity can handle at the present time. “And when the tenting for the pesky cockroaches is complete?”
“They finished today,” he informs me in his deep, gravelly tenor. “But I swear to Christ, if you suggest going back there, you’ll need to console Ty because I’ll burn that shelter to the ground.”
That shouldn’t be a sentiment that warms my heart, but it does. I’m disturbed enough that arson to keep me is like most women’s candy and roses. That’s precisely why I need to get to the crux of matters.
“Do you and your family—this cabal you’re all tied up with—need me to help you figure out this media issue that possibly involves the Morellis and Vittoris?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Ivy and Wells alluded to that with you.”
“They did,” I agree. “But I appreciate you confirming it. That’s why this is a one-night reprieve though. Nothing more.”
“I don’t see the correlation.” Along with that response, he hooks his massive leg over me, affixing me to the bed.
“You should. But I suppose it’s been a while since you’ve been at someone’s mercy.” I swallow, hoping he hears my words because as much as I want to explore whatever this is, I can’t do it like this. “My entire life, I’ve been the sacrifice, the bargaining chip, the fucking lamb. I didn’t kill them to do it somewhere else. Not even here. This time, it’s on my terms. If you all want my help, you’ll get it once I’m given a new identity and a safe route out of the country.”
He tips my chin up to him, his thumb sweeping tenderly over my cheek. “I know you’ve been through more than I can imagine. There isn’t a soul in this house who doesn’t admire your strength. We don’t want to use you. We want to keep you safe, for you to be part of us. But even if you give us nothing, even if you keep hating me, I’ll never let you go.”
“Then you’re no better than them,” I volley, disappointment drying my mouth as my jaw clenches.
He huffs an under-his-breath, resigned chuckle that has bumps sprouting across my skin. “Maybe that’s true in some ways. But there’s one major difference.”
“What’s that?”
“You have no reason to trust me yet.” He moves his leg away in a small act of faith—that I won’t move, that he won’t hold me captive—and his fingers crawl over my chest, settling at the base of my throat. “But I see it in your eyes, Wicked. I felt it when I was inside you. It’s clear, even in your rage. You’re mine. No matter how far apart we’ve been or the world of pain between us, that has always been true. I’m not keeping you because you’re a bargaining chip. I’m keeping you because you’re the treasure I should have stolen long ago. And once I prove that, you’ll never want to leave.”
His smoldering ambers flit to my lips, lingering there, captivated by the movement when my tongue darts out to wet them. Time freezes. Like the air is afraid to breathe. We’re so still.
My mouth tingles, waiting to feel the veracity of his claims. But he turns his head and glances away, that world of pain he mentioned big and bold between us.
No kissing.
“Well,” I say, my voice feathery from the anguish and overwhelm crushing it, “today is not that day.”
I wiggle out from beneath him to bounce off the bed, and he doesn’t stop me. He sees it too. We both know this life might not be long enough to heal our wounds.
But as I saunter back to my room, my vision snags on the Scrabble tiles he left out for me. I pour them back into the box and sift through for new ones, knowing all we ever have is the day we’re in. Bruised heart aside, this one was better than most.
My word of the day stands.