Chapter Fourteen
My fingers weave through the damp, tangled strands of Goldie’s hair as she sprawls against my chest. The room is still humming with the aftermath, that heavy, post-coital haze that makes everything slow down for a while.
Every time her skin brushes over the jagged, fresh cuts of her name over my heart, my dick gives a tiny, involuntary twitch.
Not happening, buddy.
We've gone enough rounds that I'm fairly certain the thing has filed for early retirement.
“You broke my dick,” I mumble, wincing as the muscle jumps again.
Marigold lets out a giggle, and it’s the best goddamn sound I’ve ever heard. It’s light, genuine, and completely at odds with the creature of the night who just carved her name into me.
I'll be spending considerable effort collecting more of them.
She pats my chest, her palm warm over the blood-crusted lines. “Poor guy. From what I’ve seen of your sexual history, I’m surprised it didn't just rot and fall off before now.”
I use my grip in her hair to gently tilt her head back, forcing her to look at me. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The breath from her snicker brushes across my collarbone. “It means you’re a fuck-boy, lover. If it had a heartbeat and a vagina, you’d find your way into it.”
“Was,” I murmur.
My eyelids are heavy, the exhaustion finally pulling at me.
The muffled bass from the club floor vibrates through the walls, a distant reminder of the world outside, but in here, the sensual air still lingers.
The red light cocoons us in a bloody embrace, a silent witness to the onslaught of hunger that just tore through us.
“Was?” she repeats, lifting her head to rest her chin on my chest. Her eyes search mine, looking for the lie.
"Was a fuckboy. Only one pussy I'm finding my way into from here on out."
Her gaze grows distant, her focus shifting inward, and she bites her bottom lip. I can practically see the gears turning, the old habit of retreating into her shell starting to take hold.
“You try to run from this,” I growl, my voice dropping into a register of pure, unadulterated promise. “I’ll find you, spank your ass, and chain you to my bed until you’re ready to finally stand still at my side.”
Her lips fold into a pout. “But then that ruins the whole aesthetic.”
My fingers pause their rhythm in her hair, and my brows draw together. “What aesthetic?”
She lifts a hand, waving it vaguely around the room before pointing a finger at the discarded, silver-spiked mask lying on the floor.
"The masked biker thing. Solid ten out of ten, by the way.
But I think a chase adds something, don't you?
I mean—" she props herself up slightly, very serious about this "—if your man isn't wearing a creepy mask and threatening forced orgasms while he hunts you down, is he even really the one? "
Cute. As. Hell.
And finally fucking mine.
“So, you’re telling me it was the mask that did it for you, huh?” I tease, a slow grin tugging at my mouth. “And here I was believing it was my fat cock.”
“Definitely the mask. The fat cock was just a nice bonus,” she chirps, leaning forward to press a quick, playful kiss to my lips.
The silence returns, but it’s heavier now. The questions I’ve been burying for four years start to crowd my mind, demanding space.
“Why stalk me?”
Her body shifts against mine, a restless movement. She shrugs, trying to play it off as nothing. “Because it was easier. Safer.”
“Safer?” I sit up slightly, the word echoing in my head. “What the fuck does that mean?”
"Is that what I said?" The laugh that comes out has a thin wire of panic running through it. "I don't think that's what I said at all. Nope. Probably just your hearing. Getting old, you know. That's definitely it. Totally."
Before I can pin her down, Marigold is scrambling up.
Her head is on a swivel, her eyes locking onto her discarded hoodie.
She jumps to her feet, snatching it from the floor and yanking it over her head in a blur of frantic motion.
“This has been fun. We should do it again sometime. Not now. Gotta go. Okay? Thanks! Bye!”
I’m up and snatching her hand before she’s even a foot from me, my fingers shackling her wrist to stop the flight. “You’re not fucking running, little shadow.”
"I'm not running."
"No? Then what are you doing?"
She lifts her chin with great dignity. "I'm walking. Fast."
I laugh and pull her back before she gets anywhere, guiding her down until she's straddling my lap. The warm bare heat of her settles against my cock and I ignore the ache of it. Not yet. I brush a stray tendril of gold from her face, my touch lighter than I feel. “Stop hiding.”
Marigold’s shoulders slump. The fight drains out of her, replaced by a sigh so heavy it feels like it could pull the floor out from under us. It’s warning me to tread carefully.
Curling my knuckle under her chin, I force her head up until I can drown in those beautiful, haunted eyes. “What are you hiding from, beautiful?”
“You know how I stalk you?” I nod, my grip tightening just a fraction. She swallows hard. “So, I have one of my own. Sort of. Kind of. I think.”
“Clarify,” I growl.
The sound makes her shiver, a delicate ripple over her skin.
For the first time in the years I’ve known her, the sunshine mask she wears shatters. Her expression turns deathly serious. “I’m almost positive the man I killed six years ago is back from the dead. And he’s found me again.”
What the fuck?
Did she….
Yep. Pretty sure my little pitch-black ray of sunshine just admitted to homicide. There should be a thousand things wrong with how much that confession turns me on, but here I am, my dick hitting a level of hardness that's almost painful.
“Tell me about it.”
Her index finger begins to trace the crude, jagged letters she carved into my chest, her touch light as if the feel of her own name is the only thing soothing her.
“I didn’t know Damon was evil when we first got together.
I didn't know he was bad at all. He was an expert at hiding that part of himself.”
"Most monsters don't show you that part until they're sure they have you somewhere you can't easily leave," I say quietly.
She nods, the motion small. “I didn’t even realize he was isolating me until it was too late.
The first time he hit me, I was so shocked that I was the one apologizing to him.
” A hollow sound moves through her. "Before him, I had fire in me, Tomcat.
I wasn't scared of anything. That was before I looked the devil in the eyes and understood there was a real chance he was going to drag me into hell with him. " Her voice drops. "He did, too."
I've seen the scars. Slight silver marks scattered across her skin. I know the marks from wounds that never had the luxury of healing right. I know the weight of trauma you don't talk about until the silence starts to choke you, so I never pushed.
Until now.
My thumb finds the scar that splits her top and bottom lip, tracing the faint line of it.
Rage, the kind of pure, white-hot vacuum that turns a man into a savage, surges through my veins.
The thought of a man laying his hands on her in a way that wasn't for her pleasure makes me want to burn the world down. The motherfucker better hope he’s actually rotting in a grave, because if I ever get my hands on him, I’m going to take a slow, surgical pleasure in opening him up and seeing what color his insides are.
I lean forward, kissing her with a reverence that borders on worship, sliding my tongue along those silvered lines as if I could lick the history right off her skin.
Some people see scars and see a victim. They’re fucking wrong.
They’re badges of honor on a warrior who walked through the fire and came out on the other side holding the torch.
"Keep going," I order softly.
“Damon rarely let me out of his sight. People thought he was just possessive, but it went deeper than that. He tried to own me. Not the way your club claims women, either. That's protection. That's care underneath all the rough edges. He did it because he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else having pieces of me that he didn’t have.”
Marigold draws her bottom lip between her teeth, her breath hitching as tears finally well up.
I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen this woman break.
It’s a physical kick to my gut. That steamrolling rage in my chest continues to build, a silent promise of violence.
A lone tear tracks down her cheek, and I lean in to kiss it away.
Her quiet, broken sob tears through my soul like a serrated blade.
“Right here, baby. Not going to let anyone else hurt you. You’re mine now and I protect what’s mine.”
She scowls at me with wet eyes and I have to bite the inside of my cheek hard to keep a straight face. My feral little woman, leaking tears and glaring at me like I've personally offended her.
“I can protect myself, thank you.”
“I know,” I soothe. “But then who would protect me?”
The way she moves through sad to ferocious to lit-up in about four seconds flat should probably alarm me. It's the most endearing thing I've ever witnessed.
She beams at me, her mood pivoting on a dime. “You’re right. I can’t possibly protect us both at the same time.” She pats my cheek like I'm a golden retriever who's done something mildly impressive. "Maybe you are a little smart."
“As opposed to…a little dumb?” I ask, amused as fuck despite the seriousness of our conversation.
"Yes."
I genuinely cannot tell if I'm being insulted or complimented and I don't think she sees a difference.
This goddamn woman.
“Ready to continue now?” I ask softly, bringing us back to the ledge.
Marigold pokes out her bottom lip, a stubborn, childish gesture that hides a world of pain. “No.”
“That’s okay. We can talk about it some other time.”
She lets out a heavy, dramatic sigh. “Fine. No need to beg. I’ll tell you.”