29. Vanessa
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
VANESSA
Back in Cupid’s apartment, I lean against the back of the tan leather couch, arms folded across my chest, my eyes transfixed on the butterfly canvas hanging on the wall like it holds all the answers.
After seeing Cupid without a shirt again yesterday in the shower, I can say with certainty that the butterfly on the canvas matches the butterfly inked on his chest.
He calls me Butterfly in private, and Psyche or Vanessa publicly. What’s the connection?
Of all the guys I’ve been involved with, none of them invoked feelings inside of me the way Cupid does. His possessiveness startles me, tearing down my walls and exposing my vulnerability to his charm. I’m honest enough to admit I relish his attention, falling deeper for his all-consuming devotion.
The mystery around Cupid and his dangerous life was exciting for a moment until I woke up in his bed with him insisting I’m his ole lady. Now, I want answers, heavy on the details. If I’m to accept being with the president of the Loveland Royal Bastards MC, I need to trust him.
Tears sting at the back of my eyes. Refusing to break down, I blink them away.
I want to believe he’ll remain faithful. I want it so damn bad.
It frustrates me to hope maybe this time will be different, that Cupid is not like the rest of the male population and will do right by me. And then he disappears for half a day, and all my insecurities regarding men being unfaithful pigs return with a vengeance.
Absorbed in my thoughts, I don’t hear Cupid’s return until he’s feet away from me. “Butterfly? How’s your head? Are you feeling better today?”
“My head?” I scoff, giving him the cold shoulder and refusing to look at him. “My head is just fine. My tolerance for your bullshit is not.”
I can almost hear the cocky smile in his voice as he says, “You must be feeling better—your attitude is back in full force.”
Not bothering to suppress my eye roll, I turn to give him a piece of my mind. “You’ve got a lot of nerve disappearing for hours on end without checking in with proof of life at least once?—”
The rest of my rant dies on my tongue when I see the state he’s in. “Jesus Christ! What happened?”
My wayward biker stands in front of me, disheveled from the night’s activities.
His clothes are covered in what I assume is dried mud and are severely rumpled and torn in some places, as if he had been in a scuffle.
Although his hair is normally unruly, it’s more than usual, sticking out in all directions.
His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, causing his clothes to cling to his muscles with perspiration.
The bags under his eyes tell me he’s exhausted.
Yet his gaze remains steady, his head cocked as he studies me—always studying me.
The mud splatters stop midway up his forearms, and his hands look red, almost like he has scrubbed them raw.
This is not the look of a man who was out whoring around all hours of the night—I know that look well from past partners. This is the look of a man who has been working hard, getting his hands dirty.
What were you doing, Cupid?
Before my brain can activate an acute stress response in me, I take a tentative step toward him. My hand reaches out to brush through his unmanaged hair, combing it into something less wild. “Are you okay?”
A deep, content groan rumbles in Cupid’s chest when my fingers run through his short hair, skimming over his scalp. His eyes shutter, getting lost in my touch.
“Better now that my woman is taking care of me and not biting my head off. I’ve missed your hands on me the last twelve hours.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still pissed you didn’t check in,” I grumble, fretting over him. Although I’m highly irritated with him, the state of him makes me pause from going full nuclear on his ass.
“If this is you pissed, I’ll take it.” He smirks before grimacing in pain. He rolls his shoulders, trying to relax his labored muscles.
Lord, he looks like he’s ready to collapse from exhaustion.
Concern floods me, worried he may hurt from whatever happened last night.
Before I can suggest moving our crucial confrontation to the couch, he says. “Talk to me, Butterfly. Tell me what’s on your mind. I know you have a lot to get off your chest. Your anger radiates off of you like static cling against my skin.”
“You’re tired. We should sit?—”
He grips me by my hips, keeping me in place and cutting me off. “Woman, I’m fine. Aside from me not calling, why are you pissed?”
A flare of annoyance runs through me hearing his bossy attitude. If he wants to have this conversation standing on his tired feet, fine by me.
“You have no idea how uneasy I felt with you gone all night. In my experience, guys who are out at those late hours are with someone else.”
Cupid opens his rich brown eyes, his stare intense as he says, “Loyalty means everything to me, whether it’s in this club or with you. Your love is sacred, and I will never step out on you.”
My jaded heart flutters, but I don’t let my hopefulness show on my face. “Not even if a club bunny is throwing herself at you?”
His expression sours, his nose turning up with disgust. “Especially not for club pussy. I should be offended that you’d question me.”
My mouth opens, ready to argue my reasoning. However, Cupid places a long finger against my lips to silence me, dropping it only when he feels certain I won’t interrupt him from saying his piece.
“But I’m not. Biker life is new to you. It’s only fair that you’d question me.”
Wow! I was not expecting him to be sensible, given how he’s steamrolled through everything else with us.
“You make it hard to stay mad at you when you’re being reasonable,” I mutter, running my fingers through his hair one more time before my palm rests against the soft leather of his cut over his heart where the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thumps against my hand.
“Good. As cute as you are mad, I prefer you happy.”
Happy? It’s wild to think I can be happy after the last few days I’ve had. Annoyed, worried, even pissed are all rational feelings I’ve experienced while being with this man. Yet, being here with this crazy-ass, possessive biker, I’m surprisingly content.
“I must admit, this little jealous side of you is hot. You’re making me hard as stone.”
I bristle at being called out. “I. Am. Not. Jealous.”
“You are,” he says, a smile tugging at his otherwise hard face. “And I love it. I want my woman to be as territorial over me as I am over her.”
Cupid wraps his arms around me, pulling me close enough his warm breath fans across my face.
Pressed against him, I can smell the night’s activities on him: his musky, manly sweat which I oddly don’t mind, the mountain breeze in his hair, a pungent copper tang coming off his clothes, and heavy disinfectant wafting off his arms…
Hold up. Why does he smell like undiluted bleach?
The only reason anyone would need to use something that strong is to remove evidence.
Horror scenarios are brewing in my head when Cupid interrupts my morbid thoughts.
“My apologies for not checking in. You’re right. I would’ve called you had club business not been time-sensitive.”
Right. Hiding a body would be time-sensitive.
Troubled, I swallow the lump of dread in my throat before asking, “Are you really not going to tell me what you were doing?”
“It’s best not to. The less you know, the safer you are,” Cupid says lightly, like it’s some club rule he’s reciting from memory and completely unaware I’m internally freaking out.
Maybe it’s my nerves making me hyper-focused, but I home in on the mud splatter on his leather cut and t-shirt. My heart rate gradually increases as my eyes trail upward, following what I thought was mud from his neck to his face.
The marching band playing in my head since receiving my concussion goes quiet as realization dawns on me, making my stomach drop out of my ass.
It isn’t mud.
It’s blood, and I’m touching it.
Nope! I yank myself free of his embrace, stumbling back against the wall. My hands splay out in front of me, palms out like a protective shield, warning him to stay back.
Cupid clocks whatever horrified look has transformed my face. His brows pull together, as if I insulted him for pulling away. He steps forward…
“NO! Don’t come any closer,” I say with a squeak, my body trembling.
“Vanessa,” he says in a low drawl, almost as if he’s warning me not to create distance between us.
“It’s blood,” I blurt, panicking. “And it’s all over you. Whose blood is it?”
Cupid’s jaw ticks back and forth, like he’s weighing the pros and cons of revealing anything to me.
“Who does it belong to?” I ask again, my voice firmer, letting him know my concern is not something he can brush off.
My biker—who may be a murderer—pauses another moment in quiet contemplation before shrugging. “Fuck it. It involves you. You deserve to know.”
“Involves me?!” I squawk, bewildered. “How?”
The warm brown of Cupid’s eyes goes dark, his face hardening. “Yes, you and the sick fucks who tried to take you from me, that’s how.”
My mouth flounders open and close like a fish out of water as my mind is consumed with thoughts and not being able to voice any. The only thing coherent in my muddled thoughts is…
He killed for me.
A pleasant warmth spreads through my body, confusing me momentarily before it dawns on me I’m not reacting the way most people would in my situation.
Instead of being horrified that a man is dead, I’m relieved, pleased even.
Moreover, I’m actually aware the only reason I’m not freaking out being in the presence of a killer is because the killer is Cupid.
How fucked in the head is that logic?
Sensing I’m in shock, Cupid stalks forward, closing the distance between us. I gasp when he cages me between the wall and himself, his breath coming out in hot waves across my face with how close he is to me.
“I’m only telling you because you deserve to know what happens to those who fuck with what’s mine,” he states, his voice raw and raspy.