Feral Heart (Sin & Steel #7)

Chapter One

“Have a nice day, Mr. Landon,”

Jamie said with a wide smile, watching the elderly man shuffle away with his overloaded cart. The wonky wheel made that familiar scuff-scuff every other step. The automatic doors whooshed open for the eighty-two year old.

Jamie brightened, trying to make a funky beat when he scanned a two-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper, a family-sized onion ring bag, and one lonely chocolate pudding for the next woman in line. The trifecta of “dinner for one but make it festive.”

Not that being single was tragic or anything. At least, Jamie didn’t think so.

The woman kept one earbud in, humming along to something that sounded like existential dread set to a beat. He wondered what it was like to be that mellow, which was the opposite of him. He had a tendency to bounce around like a caffeinated squirrel. A habit that drove his brother crazy.

She pocketed her change without looking up, grabbed her bag, and glued her phone to her ear as she drifted away.

“Have a nice day!”

he called after her, but she was already mentally checked out.

In the brief quiet that followed, the hair on Jamie’s neck prickled. Someone was watching him. He glanced around, his eyes landing on his brother.

Grant.

There he was, all six-feet-two of him, lurking just past the deli section and the poster for this week’s meat specials. The mirrored wine display split his reflection into fragments—one piece smirking, one looking dead behind the eyes, the third just shadow.

Jamie rubbed the tightness in his chest, that familiar dread resurfacing. The one that dragged up memories of their dad’s grimy apartment and those Sunday visits to county lockup. If Grant was here, nothing good would follow.

Dang it.

Jamie wrung his hands as Grant walked through produce, eyeing the place like he was planning a heist. He probably is.

His brother had on a ratty black hoodie jacket over a faded band tee. On top of his light brown hair was a mesh trucker’s cap declaring, “I EAT PAIN,”

all fished from the same laundry basket that had been sitting by Jamie’s couch for three days.

A groan escaped, and Jamie caught himself gripping the barcode scanner like a crucifix, like it might somehow save his soul.

The next customer—a grandmotherly type armed with a coupon binder and a judgmental glare—started unloading her cart. She’d spotted Grant too, strategically repositioning her cart like a shopping-cart fortress. Jamie tried to catch her eye with a reassuring “he’s mostly harmless”

look, but she’d already retreated behind her stack of clipped savings and disapproving mutters.

Breathing out slowly, he scanned Lactaid, gluten-free bread, cholesterol supplements. He knew how she felt. His stomach rebelled against gluten and dairy too. But the real stomach ache was building in his peripheral vision.

Grant lingered at the magazine rack, flipping through a copy of People like he was deciding whether to steal it or whack the next person to walk by. His gaze kept darting to Jamie with that sly, predatory gleam that said, “You know I’m coming over there, little brother.”

That’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose, counting backward from twelve in Spanish—a therapy trick he’d never mentioned to Grant—in the desperate hope he could somehow telepathically will his brother to vanish.

Oh god.

Rowan was here too. He’d somehow missed him while fixated on Grant. But now he saw the guy, statue-still just outside the sliding doors. His hands were buried in the pockets of a pea coat that looked three seasons old and about two sizes too tight across the shoulders.

His greasy hair was scraped back into a ponytail, showcasing a gaunt, pockmarked face that always looked starved, even mid-meal. He didn’t leer exactly, more like cataloged, studying everyone like he was mentally filing away their weaknesses for later use. Jamie suppressed a shudder. Rowan was just wrong on a cellular level.

Why Grant gravitated toward these train wrecks was beyond comprehension. On second thought, he’d always had questionable choices when it came to friends.

Maybe if Jamie pretended they didn’t exist, they'd just orbit for a while before drifting off to their next catastrophe. He slid the coupon drawer shut, bagged the groceries, handed back change, and summoned his best “Have a great day”

smile. He wasn’t feeling very cheery at the moment, but habit took over.

Jamie worried his bottom lip, nerves stretched wire-tight. Grant wasted zero time closing the distance.

Predators never did.

That oily smile brought back flashes of being shoved into closets, skulls bouncing off walls, his bedroom ransacked for anything worth pawning. His brother showed up last month with no warning, claiming he was just there to “visit.”

He’d never left, transforming Jamie’s tidy apartment into a biohazard zone with his revolting habits, and his sketchy friends treated the front door like a turnstile.

Grant leaned across the conveyor belt before the next customer could approach, planting both palms on the black surface with that predatory grin. The same expression that had charmed him out of three juvenile detentions and into at least a dozen girls’ beds, with predictably disastrous results. Which was how he’d ended up doing time.

“Yo, Lamie!”

Grant announced loud enough for every cashier, exhausted parent, and sticky-fingered toddler within earshot.

“Need a twenty. Spot me, bro.”

Though Jamie’s hands trembled slightly, his voice thankfully stayed steady.

“You’re not supposed to show up at my job, Grant. We talked about this already.”

With a huff, his brother slid a hand along the scanner’s edge, like he was sizing it up for a potential weapon.

“Bro, you got paid today. Don’t bullshit me.”

He snatched a container of Altoids from the impulse rack. Flicking the lid open, he shoved three mints into his jeans pocket, then tossed it back among the other breath fresheners.

“Besides, I’ll pay you back. With interest and shit. Come on.”

The two women in line kept darting glances between Grant and Rowan. Jamie wondered what they saw. A desperate junkie shaking down his traumatized-for-life brother for drug money. Or maybe a pair of small-time criminals casing the joint for an after-hours score? The reality was less dramatic but equally soul-crushing.

“If you get me fired, there won’t be a twenty, or a job, or a couch for you to crash on,”

Jamie whispered through barely parted lips.

“You need to leave before Jerry sees you. He’s already told you twice not to come back.”

Being banned by Jerry was like getting scolded by Mr. Rogers. The guy even dressed like him. Not exactly intimidating, but for reasons that baffled Jamie, Grant actually listened to him. Because he doesn't want to go back to prison.

It wasn’t because he was afraid of Jamie’s boss. Jerry’s voice always cracked when he confronted Grant. The man needed to inject some authority into his tone, maybe grow a backbone, or Grant would eventually steamroll right over him.

Grant pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, bottom lip jutting out in mock wounded innocence.

“I see how it is,”

he said, dropping the act as quickly as he’d started it.

“You must’ve grown some balls since this morning, huh? Think that little name tag makes you king of this shithole?”

Please just leave. Jamie’s sweaty fingers fumbled with the bottle of hand sanitizer beside his register. It slipped free and hit the floor with a thump. After retrieving the bottle and straightening, Rowan materialized behind him, silent as a held breath. Jamie didn’t want to turn around, but the eyes boring into his back were impossible to ignore.

Rowan’s mouth twisted into something resembling a smile.

“Hey, Jamie,”

he said quietly, that nasal voice making Jamie’s skin crawl.

“You gonna help your brother out, or what?”

If Grant was a spider trapped in a jar, Rowan was the hand that shook the jar just to watch it panic.

Jamie blinked rapidly then turned to help the next customer once Grant finally stepped aside. Middle-aged guy with a Bluetooth headset, clutching a box of condoms like his life depended on it. He seemed the type of person who’d rather die than be caught buying rubbers, especially during a tense situation.

“I’m broke,”

Jamie mumbled, focusing on the transaction. After covering utilities, which had skyrocketed since Grant materialized at his door like a feral house guest, there was nothing left.

“You can’t keep doing this. Mom’s not gonna bail you out again.”

Grant laughed, loud and sharp.

“She’s why I’m broke, bro! Pretty sure she’s using again.”

He pulled an exaggerated thinking face.

“Fuck, what an idiot I was, right?”

The act dropped instantly.

“Nah, but she did say I ‘lacked initiative.’ Can you believe that bitch?” He gestured at the customer’s condoms with his thumb, waggling his eyebrows.

“Someone’s getting laid tonight.”

Oh my god! Jamie wanted the earth to crack open and swallow him whole, or the poor customer probably wanted to disappear in the same way.

The tips of the guy’s ears had gone bright red, his cheeks flaming as he paid in cash and fled, abandoning his receipt in his haste to escape.

Jamie tried focusing on keeping the line moving, on the next customer, on literally anything except the unwanted attention of Grant and his parasitic sidekick.

Rowan leaned closer, his breath reeking of menthol cigarettes and bottom-shelf whiskey, the kind that came in brown paper bags.

Jamie flinched, praying those cracked lips wouldn’t make contact.

Grant really needed to give those stolen breath mints to his deranged friend.

“You’re not gonna help your own brother?”

Rowan tsked softly.

“That’s just cold, man.”

Jamie stayed quiet. Grant already knew what the answer would be before he’d even shown up. He just got some sick thrill from terrorizing his little brother. He’d been doing it since they were kids, and prison had only refined his cruelty.

Weren’t those places supposed to rehabilitate people, not sharpen their worst impulses?

Grant rolled his gray eyes, drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Whatever, man. But check this out. Rowan got a line on some premium shit. You wanna party with us tonight?”

“Drugs are for losers.”

Jamie fought to keep the tears from falling. He was never going to escape Grant, not as long as his brother lived there rent-free. Jamie desperately wanted to kick him out, but Grant was bigger, stronger, with a prison-built body that could pound Jamie into dust.

Grant went very still, staring at Jamie like he was calculating which torture method would hurt most. “Loser?”

Oh no! He hadn’t meant for that slip out, but Grant wouldn’t accept any excuse or apology. Being disrespected publicly wasn’t something he’d just forgive. Jamie really, really wished he could rewind time and clamp a hand over his past self’s mouth.

The look in Grant’s eyes made it clear he wasn’t going to forget this.

“Is there a reason you cabrones are holding up the line?”

Jamie’s head whipped to the right, his breath hitching, as everything else faded to background noise.

It was him. The customer who showed up every Sunday like clockwork, cart loaded to the brim, face breathtakingly gorgeous.

Oh crackers! Jamie stopped himself from checking his breath. Now he wanted one of Grant’s stolen Altoids.

It was the stranger who made Jamie’s tummy flutter every single week. The most he’d ever said was “thanks”

to Jamie, but someday the guy would notice him. He was sure of it. Jamie would spread himself across that conveyor belt naked if the guy asked. Drop to his knees right here. Bend over with his pants around his ankles.

Jamie crossed his arms, then let them fall, then propped one on the counter and one on the register like he was posing for Cashier Monthly. Did that kind of magazine exist? Maybe Cashier Quarterly?

Grant’s jaw ticked with annoyance.

“Don’t,”

Jamie whispered harshly, refusing to meet Mr. Made-for-Wet-Dreams’ incredible tropical-blue eyes.

“You’re gonna get me fired.”

Plus his brother’s voice was ruining Jamie’s whole fantasy.

“The fuck you call me?”

Grant angled toward Beefcake, completely ignoring Jamie’s plea.

His lust muffin might’ve been packing a ridiculous amount of hard, rippling muscles, but… Jamie blinked, losing his train of thought completely. Sweet buttered toast. Sexy Body’s T-shirt was stretched so tight it probably needed physical therapy. Jamie would be happy to remove the offending fabric. With his teeth.

Staring was rude, but he couldn’t rip his eyes away. For months he’d looked forward to Sunday afternoons, knowing his honey bunny would appear.

Heck, he’d switched shifts just to work Sundays if he wasn’t scheduled for them. He was crushing on his boo so hard he should’ve reduced the poor guy to rubble.

Pathetic? Absolutely. Regrets? Zero.

Those tropical-blue eyes locked with Grant’s menacing gray ones. If these two started swinging, the whole store would become a war zone. While his brother was clearly ticked off, Jamie’s jellybean looked like he was calculating every pressure point on Grant’s body, planning maximum damage.

Then his dreamboat shooed at them like they were misbehaving toddlers.

“My ice cream’s melting, ladies.”

A laugh escaped before Jamie could stop it. He pressed his lips together, totally captivated by his pookie’s deep, sexy voice. It was the first time he’d heard him say more than a single word, and Jamie wanted to beg him to keep talking. Dirty talk would be more than welcome.

Red alert! His inked god glanced at him. He’s looking at me! Play it cool. Don’t do anything to embarrass yourself. Jamie grinned and gave a little wave, nearly fainting when his cupcake winked at him.

He tried to return the wink but ended up scrunching his whole face like he was having a stroke.

The guy chuckled, an actual dreamy sound, but Grant clearly didn’t find it funny. He reached across the bagging area and whapped Jamie upside his head, making him cry out at the sudden smack.

Jamie jerked back with a yelp as the stranger slammed Grant chest-first against the conveyor belt, one muscled arm pinning Grant’s back while the other fist tangled in his hair.

Rowan stepped forward like he was planning a sneak attack.

“Behind you!”

Jamie shouted, pointing directly at the creep.

A low growl froze Rowan mid-step, but the look he shot Jamie was pure ice.

“You did not just do that in front of me, pendejo,”

Blue Eyes snarled at Grant.

“Apologize, or you lose the whole fucking arm.”

The fluorescent lights must’ve hit his eyes weird because Jamie could’ve sworn they were glowing soft amber. Honestly they were the most incredible eyes he’d ever seen.

“He’s my brother,”

Grant sneered, trying to sound tough despite being pinned like a bug.

“He’s slow, so he didn’t even feel it.”

Jamie’s jaw dropped. His brother had just humiliated him in front of the man of his dreams. A small crowd had gathered, several people glancing his way, but Jamie was too mortified to care about them.

“I’m not slow!”

he shouted, hands clenched into fists.

“I have brain damage because of you!”

He spun around and dashed toward the breakroom, brushing past Jerry, who’d just emerged from his office.

“Jamie, what’s wrong, buddy? Hey, you can’t go back there!”

Jerry wasn’t making sense since Jamie worked there, but he didn’t stop to ask questions. He discovered the reason soon enough.

“Stop running.”

Shoot! Jamie stumbled at the deep voice right behind him, nearly face-planting into the wall. A strong arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him back against a solid chest.

“Easy, colibri.”

The voice gentled, warm and close.

“Walls can be unforgiving.”

“Walls can’t forgive.”

Jamie cursed, knowing what the guy meant, which only proved Grant’s point.

“Tell that to the ones I’ve run into.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through Jamie’s back.

“Been knocked unconscious more times than I care to remember.”

He still hadn’t let go.

“Stupid question, but are you okay?”

Jamie touched his temple with trembling fingers, breathing unsteady.

“I’m not slow,”

he whispered, desperate for the guy to believe him, for just one person to treat him like everyone else. Even Jerry spoke to him like he was mentally deficient, because his brain injuries were documented in his employee file. A lifetime of head trauma, and not always from hands.

“You looked pretty fast to me, cari?o. Had me winded trying to catch up.”

“That’s not what I meant. You heard my brother.”

Jamie glanced down, waving his arm toward the registers.

“Tu hermano es un cerdo sin valor.”

The guy made a spitting sound then spread his fingers across Jamie’s belly.

“I’m Cesar, by the way.”

“I’m Lamie.”

Did I just say that? He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he could restart this entire day.

“I mean Jamie. I’m Jamie.”

“Are you okay, Jamie?”

Cesar asked, voice intimate and concerned.

He couldn’t believe his crush was actually touching him. No, holding him against his chest. He wanted to turn and gaze into those amazing eyes but was terrified his honey bunny might let go.

“I—”

He couldn’t think with Cesar so close, those hands on him.

Keeping Jamie’s back pressed to his chest, Cesar guided them forward into the breakroom, closing the door with the heel of his boot. They didn’t stop until he lowered Jamie into a chair. Instead of taking a seat beside him, Cesar crouched down and took Jamie’s hands in his.

“Look at me, cari?o.”

Biting his lip, Jamie met that incredible ocean-blue eyes, the skin crinkling around them.

“Hello, guapo.”

Cesar smiled as his thumbs brushed across Jamie’s knuckles.

“We doing better now?”

“You buy a lot of food every week.”

Jamie grinned, despite everything.

“You’re not eating it all yourself, are you?”

Today had been a light load. There’d been times when Cesar shopped with two carts. More than a few times Jamie was tempted to ask if he was hibernating for the winter, even though it was still hot outside.

Cesar’s warm and open laugh eased Jamie’s frayed nerves.

“I’ve got a whole pack of hungry men to feed.”

“Oh.”

Jamie tried thinking of something intelligent to say, but he was too mesmerized by Cesar’s tropical-blue eyes.

“Can you cook?”

“Why don’t you come by the tavern and see for yourself? You know Sin and Steel?”

“Yes!”

Jamie’s grin widened.

“I walk right past it on my way to work.”

He leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “There’s a lot of motorcycles parked there.”

He’d never spotted Cesar at the tavern, or he definitely would’ve found an excuse to go inside. That might sound a bit stalkerish, but Jamie was past caring.

“Then promise you’ll come see me, colibrí.”

Cesar slid his hands up and down Jamie’s arms, the touch somehow calming.

Curling his fingers, Jamie felt nervous excitement building.

“I promise.”