Vengeance
She was curled against his side, one bare leg tangled with his beneath the blankets and her cheek resting over his heart. Her slow, even breaths warmed his skin, and one of her hands lay loosely against his stomach, dangerously close to the scar from the bullet wound.
“Morning,” she breathed.
His throat felt too tight to answer. “Morning,” he finally managed.
She studied him. “You’re staring.”
“How would you know that? You were asleep.”
“Me being asleep doesn’t make it less creepy,” she insisted.
His lips twitched. “I was checking that you were breathing.”
“I was snoring, wasn’t I?” she asked.
“You don’t snore,” he lied. She sounded like a rusty old chainsaw when she slept, but he wasn’t about to tell her that.
“I absolutely do.”
“No.” He brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face. “You make a little humming sound.”
Her eyes widened. “I do not.”
“You do,” he said. “And they just happen to be as loud as a chainsaw.”
He laughed, and she smacked his chest. “Why haven’t you told me?”
“Because it’s cute,” he said. The word left his mouth before he could stop it.
Chloe grinned. “Did Vengeance Manzo just call me cute?”
“No,” he mumbled.
“You did,” Chloe insisted.
“I’m still half asleep.”
“You’ve been awake for at least an hour,” she said.
“Twenty minutes,” he admitted.
“That’s an hour in normal-people time.” He shook his head, and she laughed softly and settled her cheek against his chest again.
The sound filled something inside him he hadn’t known was empty.
For several minutes, they lay without speaking.
Sunlight slowly crept around the edges of the curtains, casting a pale line across the wooden floor.
The fire had burned down overnight, leaving only glowing embers in the stone hearth.
Vengeance stared at the ceiling. He wanted to stay there with her forever, and that was the problem.
He wanted mornings like this. He wanted Chloe wearing his shirts and laughing at him on the porch.
He wanted to rebuild the motorcycle with her standing nearby, pretending she understood what he was doing while handing him the wrong tools.
He wanted things he had spent his whole life believing weren’t meant for men like him—a home, peace, and her.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He looked down, and Chloe’s smile had faded. “Nothing.”
“Liar,” she challenged.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re doing that thing again,” she insisted.
“What thing?” he asked.
“The one where your whole body goes stiff, and you pretend you aren’t thinking about something terrible.” He was scared of how well she could read him.
“I don’t do that,” he lied.
She raised her head. “You do it every time the radio crackles, every time you wake up from a nightmare, and every time I mention going home.” He looked away, and Chloe sat up, pulling the blanket around herself. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Vengeance.” Her voice sounded like a warning, and he knew better than to ignore her when she sounded exactly like Bowie.
He sighed. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
The hurt that crossed her face was immediate, and he hated himself for causing it. “You regret last night?”
“No.” His answer came too quickly for her to misunderstand.
“Then what do you mean?” she asked.
He pushed himself upright against the headboard.
“My father is still hunting you,” he reminded.
“I know,” she said, as though it was nothing to have a crazy man looking for her.
“We’re hiding in a house while Bowie and the club risk their lives trying to find evidence against him.”
“I know that too.”
“Doc is dead,” he breathed.
Her expression tightened. “You think I forgot?”
“No, I don’t,” he said.
“Then stop talking to me like I don’t understand what’s happening.”
He dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m saying the timing is wrong.”
“The timing has been wrong since the day we met,” she grumbled.
“That doesn’t make this thing happening between us smart,” he insisted.
Chloe stared at him. “Is that what last night was to you? A bad decision?”
“No,” he breathed.
“Then what was it?” He wanted to tell her that it was everything. The word rose inside him, but he couldn’t force it past his lips. Instead, he reached for her hand. She allowed him to take it, but her fingers remained stiff in his.
“It was the best night of my life.” Her expression softened slightly. “And that terrifies me.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because Dante destroys everything I care about,” he admitted.
“He hasn’t destroyed us.”
“Not yet,” he grumbled.
Chloe pulled her hand away. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” he asked.
“Turn him into something unstoppable,” she said.
“You don’t know him like I do,” Vengeance insisted.
“No, I don’t.” She shifted closer. “But I know you.”
He laughed bitterly. “You’ve known me for two months.”
“I know you wake up every morning and check every door and window before making coffee.”
“That’s just my survival skills kicking in,” he said.
“I know you always give me the larger portion at dinner even when there isn’t enough food,” she almost whispered.
“I’m not hungry,” he lied.
She barked out her laugh. “You’re always hungry.
” He frowned, but she continued before he could argue.
“I know you keep Savage’s damaged Colt beneath your pillow even though it can’t fire.
” His gaze automatically shifted toward the pillow.
“I know you sit outside when your nightmares get bad because you don’t want to wake me. ”
“Chloe—” he breathed.
“And I know you blame yourself for every terrible thing Dante has ever done, even the things that happened before you were born,” she said. He went still, and she placed one hand over his heart. “You keep saying I don’t know you.”
“You don’t know all of me,” he said.
“Then show me all of you, Vengeance,” Chloe breathed.
He stared at her hand against his chest. “You might not like what you see.”
“That should be my decision,” she said.
“It’s not that simple,” he insisted.
“It is.” Her voice softened. “You don’t get to make my choices for me.” He knew she was right, but that didn’t mean he knew how to stop protecting her—even from himself.
“I didn’t just watch the recordings from the night you were taken,” he said.
Chloe frowned. “What? You told me that Dante forced you to watch them.” He had, but there was so much more.
The confession had been living inside him since the night beneath the bridge.
It had waited behind every quiet moment, and every shared cup of coffee.
Every time she looked at him with trust, he wasn’t certain he deserved it.
“The night Dante took you.” The blood drained from her face, and Vengeance’s stomach twisted, but he forced himself to continue. “I was at the warehouse.”
“You saw me there?” she breathed.
“I was fourteen,” he said. Her hand slipped away from his chest. “My father thought that I should start learning the family business. I told him that I didn’t want to, but he gave me no option. A part of me was glad that I was there because it showed me what kind of monster my father was.”
Chloe pulled the blanket tighter around herself. “What did you see?”
“Enough,” he whispered.
“What does that mean?”
He closed his eyes. “I saw them bring you inside.” The memory had never faded of a small girl wearing pink sneakers with her hands bound. Her face was stained with tears. She was still fighting, and still kicking anyone who came close. “I saw you bite one of the men holding you.”
A faint, humorless laugh escaped her. “I remember biting someone.”
“You broke his skin,” he said.
“Good.”
“You kept screaming for your fathers.” Her eyes filled with tears. Vengeance looked down at his hands. “I watched from the hallway. Dante was the only one who knew I was there.”
“Why didn’t you help me?” The question was quiet, but it cut deeper than if she had screamed it.
“I was scared.” He hated the weakness in his own voice. “I was fourteen, and I was terrified of him.”
“You knew what he planned to do to me?” she asked.
“I heard him discussing the auction,” he admitted. Chloe turned away, and Vengeance felt the space opening between them. He deserved it. “I should’ve done something.”
“You were a child,” she reminded.
“So were you,” he whispered.
“You weren’t responsible for me.”
“I feel like I’ve been responsible ever since,” he said.
Her head snapped back toward him. “Is that why you came to Savage Hell?”
“Partly,” he admitted.
“Because you felt guilty?” she questioned.
“Yes.” The truth landed between them. She climbed out of bed, dragging the blanket with her as she crossed the room. Vengeance watched her pick up his flannel shirt from the floor and pull it on. His chest tightened. “Chloe.”
“Was any of this real?” she asked. He felt as if she had driven a knife between his ribs.
“What does that mean?” he asked.
“You knew who I was before we met. You watched what happened to me. You spent years feeling guilty, and then my dad died, and you decided you could finally save me.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No,” he said.
She folded her arms across her chest. “Then tell me what happened.”
“I came to Huntsville because I intercepted the contract on you,” he said.
“Because you owed Savage,” she interrupted.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“And because you felt responsible for what Dante did,” she said.
“Yes.”
Her eyes glistened. “Then how am I supposed to know you want me and not forgiveness?” Vengeance threw back the covers and stood. Pain pulled through his side, but he ignored it.
“I don’t expect forgiveness,” he insisted.
“Then what do you expect?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he breathed.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I didn’t protect you so you’d give me something.”
She put her hands on her hips and stared him down. “What about last night?” she asked.
“That wasn’t payment for anything,” he said. His voice cracked through the room, and Chloe flinched. Vengeance immediately lowered his tone. “I would never touch you if I thought you were doing it because you owed me.”
“I didn’t,” she said.