Chapter 19
The next morning, I drop Dove at the mechanic shop just after dawn. Carl and Jasper nod at me like we’re all pretending this setup is normal. Like I didn’t spend half the night thinking about her on skates, Jag’s tattoo, the mysterious car, and her painful—albeit well-deserved—rejection.
The streets are empty. Sitka’s always quiet at this hour. The tattoo parlor looms, the door already propped open with a cinder block.
Inside, the lights are on.
And so is Declan.
“Okay, so this wasn’t here on Sunday, right?
Like, definitely not here. I was off yesterday, came back this morning, and boom—bam—bam!
A new room. Just… There. Like it grew overnight.
Like a mushroom. Or an alien pod. I don’t know, man.
This reeks of the Anunnaki. No tire tracks.
No receipts. No weird guys in reflective vests.
And the construction? Pristine. Like too clean.
No dust, no noise complaints, not even a rogue drywall screw on the floor.
I think it’s an invasion. Did it happen last night?
Or 4000 years ago? Are we missing time? What day is it? ”
“Morning, Declan.” I brush past him.
He vibrates, tweaking hard off his fifth or tenth cup of coffee. The aroma of burned beans trails him as he follows me, spewing conspiracy theories I no longer hear.
Because standing where my workstation used to be is a room. Framed out. Walled up. Closed off. A godsdamn room.
New sheetrock hangs on new studs, the tang of sawdust and fresh wood cutting through the musty air.
Perplexed, I run my fingers along the edge of the doorframe, the unpainted drywall, the cleanly mudded seams. A room made of high-grade shit that doesn’t match the rest of the shop.
I open the heavy door and step inside, finding everything exactly how I left it last night.
My chair. Worn stool. Workbench of sterilized tools. Inks arranged in gradients only I understand. Light still spills through the window at the perfect angle for morning sessions. Nothing out of place. No tampering.
But the privacy? That’s new.
I walk the perimeter, inspecting. I don’t hate it. Not even a little. I’ve spent my life being watched and observed. By a psychopath. By my brothers.
And now Jag.
He did this. Probably planned it out while my hands were on his thigh. Maybe built it himself after I left last night.
The pleasure of it creeps in too fast, warm and unwelcome.
Anger follows.
Because privacy is currency. A bribe. A manipulation.
I back out of the room, heart thudding.
Declan prattles on about quality craftsmanship and aliens. I breeze past him, slam open the door to the break room, and pull up short.
I didn’t expect to find Jag in here. But there he is. Asleep on a shitty metal cot, shoved into the corner of the room like someone dumped him there after a hard night of partying.
He looks like a fallen statue of some war god left behind in the rubble. Completely nude except for a thin blanket slung low over his hips, barely covering anything worth hiding.
His massive frame twists awkwardly to fit the too-small mattress, legs dangling off the end, one arm draped over his washboard stomach, the other hanging limp to the floor. His chest rises slowly, all corded muscle and brutal lines. A body chiseled out of violence and left to cool.
Every inch of him is honed. No softness except his face, and even that’s a lie. Square jaw dusted with faint whiskers. Mouth slack in sleep. Shadows trace every ridge and groove, highlighting how perfectly designed he is to break people.
“Isn’t he magnificent?” Declan whispers, peering around my shoulder, gawking.
“No.” I push him backward and shut the door in his face.
Then, with a pulse full of piss and adrenaline, I cross the room and stop at the edge of the cot.
“Hey,” I snap, low and sharp.
Nothing.
“Wake the fuck up.”
Still nothing.
I kick the cot hard, and it screeches against the floor.
Jag jolts as if ripped from a nightmare, sitting up fast. Eyes wild, chest heaving, he stares at me, shocked.
I stare right back.
He blinks rapidly, and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Then he lifts the wrong hand.
The broken one.
His whole body seizes, and his jaw snaps shut so brutally I hear his teeth connect. No other sound leaves his mouth as pain crashes through his expression, flaring his nostrils and strangling a roar in his throat.
He swallows it down like it’s acid. But he can’t hide it. Not the tremble in his arm.
The hand is bloated and purple around the wrist, the bandages crusted with dried blood and construction dust. The unraveling gauze appears too tight in some places, loose in others.
He tries to flex his fingers, but they don’t move.
“What the hell did you do to it?” I growl.
“What time is it?”
“Time to go to the hospital.”
Falling back against the cot, he winces. “No hospitals.”
Of course not. He’s a walking felony. The ER would probably fingerprint him and set off a dozen alerts.
“Did you wash the tattoo?” I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to the family group chat.
“Been busy.”
“Busy building a room I don’t need?”
“You need it.”
“No, you need it.”
“You were out in the open.” He drags the blanket higher over his hips as if modesty suddenly matters. “No door or control over who walks in. Anyone could watch you work.”
How very possessive of him. He wants to be the only one allowed to look. The only one who gets access.
And I hate how that twists something inside me.
Part of me wants to shove him. Hard. Tell him I’m not his. That I don’t belong to anyone.
But another part, the quieter, hungrier part, wants to know what it feels like to be wanted like that. To be claimed without apology.
You can’t have it both ways.
“Don’t pretend this was a gallant sacrifice.” I shoot him a distrustful look. “You did it to seduce me with privacy. To have a claim on me. A room with your fingerprints on every wall.”
He exhales hard, sweat slicking his forehead.
Fever.
“Was it worth it?” I lick my lips. “Fucking up your hand to cage me?”
“You fucked up my hand, Strakh.” His mouth curls like he might say something cruel, but instead, he throws his good arm over his eyes. “There was a car last night. Tail lights on the ridge. Trailed you when you left town and again when you returned.”
“You watched us.” My spine stiffens.
“I always watch you.”
He’s not denying it. Not apologizing. Just tossing out the confession with no shame.
“Let me get this right.” My voice drops. “Last night, you stalked us, built a room with a fractured wrist, and passed out in the break room instead of going home?”
His eyes meet mine, clear now. Awake. “I don’t have a home.”
I breathe through my nose, trying not to react. Trying not to feel.
“Then this—” I gesture toward the new construction “—was a waste of money.”
“It’s not about money.”
I stare at him for a long beat, heart hammering. Because he’s right. This is about Dove.
And now me.
I let out a sharp breath through my nose. “Get up. Shower. You’re burning up, and you didn’t clean the damn tattoo.”
His eyes flutter halfway open, and surprise, surprise, he drags the blanket off and swings his legs over the side without a fight.
But when he stands, his knees buckle.
“Shit.” I lunge forward and catch under his arm, his weight slamming into me like a fucking oak tree falling sideways.
He’s naked, skin as hot as a fevered furnace and damp with sweat. I grit my teeth, trying to ignore the fact that I’m half-dragging, half-hauling a muscle-sculpted serial killer across the room.
The attached bathroom is a cramped, spartan space tucked off the break room. Cement floor, drain in the middle. Rust-streaked toilet, a wall sink with a cracked mirror, and a single showerhead jutting from the wall like an afterthought. No curtain. No divider. Just cold, ugly function.
I prop the oversized ogre against the sink, one hand pressed to his chest to keep him upright as I twist the knobs. The pipes groan and spit until lukewarm water coughs out.
“I got this,” he mutters, voice rough.
“Sure you do.” I crouch to yank off my boots and peel my socks free.
When I stand and shove up my sleeves, he’s already half-gone again, eyes unfocused.
“Fuck.” I grab his shoulders and maneuver him under the spray.
The water hits his skin, and he shudders.
“If you fall, I’m leaving you on the floor.” I wedge myself between him and the wall to keep him vertical.
I work fast, running my hands over his chest, arms, down his ribs, and the fresh tattoo along his thigh. My fingers trace the lines, rinsing the grime away, careful not to rip healing skin.
This is just about cleaning him. Keeping the ink from going septic. That’s all.
Besides, I have the upper hand here.
Except the muscle beneath my palms feels devastatingly sinful and impossibly hard. His skin is too slick, sweat and water mixing, breath hitching in his throat as I move lower.
And my traitorous body reacts.
Because I’m a lowly mortal.
But I’m not gay.
So what if my dirty fantasies include men sometimes? That’s only because it’s all I know. When I close my eyes and think about sex, I see dicks. I know dicks.
Once I get my hands and mouth on Dove’s pretty pussy, I’ll have her image to preside over my filthiest imaginings.
Except last night, I fucked my fist to fantasies of them both. The three of us together. In every position.
You can’t chase me and entertain him.
She’s right.
Jag’s the enemy. Her tormentor.
Her stepbrother.
I leave the soggy bandages on his hand and reach between his legs to rinse him. Then I make another pass, chasing away lingering suds.
His chin drops to his chest, eyes cracked open. “If you clean it more than once, you’re playing with it.”
My first instinct is to punch his pretty face.
Or maybe I should let go and watch him faceplant.
But his knees buckle, and his body sags heavily against mine.
“Shut the fuck up.” I haul him upright, my face hot and hands clumsy.
I swear under my breath as I finish quickly, my clothes soaked through to my skin. But I can’t remove my shirt, not in front of anyone, especially him.
Once he’s rinsed, I drag him out, water dripping everywhere, and half-carry him back to the cot.
He’s unconscious before he hits the mattress.
A black duffel sits on the floor. I rummage through it, yanking out a pair of sweatpants, and manhandle his limp weight into them. My hands shake for no good reason, but I get the job done.
Just as I’m hauling the blanket over him, the door opens.
“Wolf?” Kody’s growly voice loosens the tension in my shoulders.
Frankie barrels in right behind, her sharp green eyes wide with worry.
When I fired off that text to the family, I wasn’t sure they’d actually come. As quickly as they arrived, they must’ve been nearby. Probably on the way to the hospital, given Frankie’s scrubs.
I don’t know why I bothered, but as I look down at Jag, his wet hair curling over his fever-flushed forehead, I guess I didn’t want him to die.
Not until I’ve played with him a bit more.