Chapter 2
LILY
Each time I open the door to the Rusty Spur, I have a moment where I clutch. I see all the men, their gazes falling on me, sexual interest in their eyes, and for a second I’m back thirteen years, chained up in a dilapidated house that smelled like blood and despair.
Then I remember I’m safe. I’m a vet now, with a decent business. I’ve only been in Iron Ridge for a year, but people respect me. I’m no longer that eighteen-year-old girl no one gave a shit about as she was being abducted.
Not that this is about me. It’s about finding the men who killed my sister, Mandy. It’s about stopping them from taking and hurting more women, the way they did the two of us.
So, like the other times, I swallow the automatic fear and make myself step into the bar.
Pausing just inside the threshold, I do what I’ve been taught.
It’s a safety thing, but who am I kidding?
It settles my nerves too. I map the exits—front entrance, back hallway toward the bathrooms, kitchen door to the left, and check to see if any of them are obstructed.
I scan the crowd for anyone who feels like more of a threat than the others.
Like Mason Rivera.
I don’t see him, but I feel his heavy gaze. I recognize it. My heart beats heavy, and my chest gets tight. My body reacts in a way it never has.
He looks at me and I get wet.
I never have before. I’ve never been tempted by any man before. Yes, I’m thirty-one and the only cock I’ve ever known is made from silicone—not a surprise given my virginity saved me from being brutalized when I was abducted thirteen years ago.
But, since I’ve met Mason Rivera, I’ve been having wild thoughts of pleasure I’m not sure is possible for me. I press my thumbnail into the tip of my finger to keep myself present and cool instead of searching for him wildly.
I swear I feel him watching all the time, even at home—and I like it. Instead of feeling creepy, it feels like he’s looking out for me. Like he sees me, past all the layers I’ve carefully constructed, and doesn’t care about the broken bits.
For the first time when a man stares at me, I want to invite him closer.
Which is absolutely insane, because even if you were blind, you’d know he’s dangerous. Even if I didn’t know of his background as a sniper in the Delta Force, I’d recognize it. He reeks of violence.
The smart thing to do would be to stay far away from him.
And I have—so far. But whenever he looks at me with those dark eyes, like he knows my greatest fears and will battle them away with his bare hands, I have to fight the urge to run to him instead.