31. Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-One
HARLOW
As I suspected the truth would do, it sends Lynx into a spiral. A concerningly quiet spiral, but a spiral nonetheless.
I have no idea what he’s doing out there, but I can hear him hammering away at something in his workshop, taking his frustrations out on some poor piece of wood.
I understand his need to keep himself busy. To find a distraction that doesn’t revolve around me and my past or the demons he so gallantly wishes to slay for me.
Despite years of trying, it’s something I’ve never been able to master myself.
And boy, have I tried.
Seated in one of the Adirondack chairs on the stone patio in his backyard, I stare out past his workshop and into the horizon, watching the autumn sun slowly sink below the tree line.
Except for the banging and sawing coming from Lynx’s workshop, there’s a peacefulness to his property.
With its vast yard that stretches out to a thick, piney forest, and the strings of Edison bulbs slinking across the well-manicured outdoor living space, it looks like something out of a home magazine.
It’s warm and cozy. But spacious enough that it doesn’t feel suffocating. A modern style with just the right amount of charm.
Just as I’m considering going to check on Lynx, the door to his shop flies open. His big body practically fills the entire doorway as he stands there staring at me, his enormous tattooed hands balled at his sides and little flecks of sawdust contrasting against his dark hair and black T-shirt.
And the look in his eyes … Phew. It’s hot enough to melt steel.
If I weren’t royally pissed at him for rubbing Alexander’s death in my face the way he did, I’d climb him like a damn tree and take my sweet time coming back down.
“Done being a caveman yet?” I call across the yard at him, smirking when the scowl on his face intensifies.
I may be mentally unwell and more than a little depressed, but my sense of humor and the faulty wire that powers my attitude are still firmly intact.
He rakes a hand through his hair, shaking the sawdust from his head before locking up his workshop and sauntering over to the patio.
Blocking the last of the sun and casting a long shadow over me, he says, “Glad to see you haven’t lost your snark.”
I flash him a smile. “The day I lose my snark is the day I give up on life.”
He grimaces. “What did I tell you about cracking jokes about that?”
I shrug a shoulder, then rub at it with my hand because, goddamn it, I’m all sorts of sore and achy after being away from dancing for so long. It’s as though my muscles are protesting the hiatus they’ve been on.
“Heat,” Lynx says out of nowhere. I peer up at him in question. “Heat will help your muscles. You can use the hot tub if you want.”
I glance over at the rumbling box with the gray leather lid.
“I think I might.”
Slapping the arms of the chair with my palms, I uncross my legs and go to stand, realizing quickly that Lynx is standing much closer than I thought.
Jesus. Why does he have to be so tall and imposing?
I inhale.
And that lime and cedarwood scent is now laced with fresh-cut pine.
Needing to get away from him before I do something stupid, like tell him I never really hated him and that he’s forgiven even though he hasn’t made good on his promise to let me return to work yet, I brush past him, ignoring the zap of electricity that flies through me when his fingers dust over the scar on my wrist the way they did in the diner the first night.
Once I’m back in his bedroom, I rifle through the limited clothing I have here, cursing under my breath when I realize I never bothered to pack a bathing suit.
Ah well. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it all before.
Settling on a pair of pink boyshort-style cotton undies and a matching thinly lined bra, I peel out of my leggings and tank top and slip into the set I’d normally wear to bed, grab a towel from the ensuite bathroom, and pad barefoot down the hall and back out onto the patio.
What I find makes my heart lodge into my throat and a wave of heat to ripple down to the space between my legs.
Holy moly and all things holy.
The muscles. The tattoos.
I’ve had the man’s cock literally inside of me. But it’s only dawning on me now that I’ve never seen him shirtless.
And oh what a delectable sight it is.
Standing awkwardly with my mouth hanging agape, I take him in.
No. Scratch that.
I visually gobble him up like the fine hunk of man meat he is.
In all my days, I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. His entire chest and stomach are covered in ink, various Greek gods and Roman architecture decorating every inch of smooth, tanned skin.
He’s a literal work of art.
I must hover there for a while, drooling and watching him unfold the hot tub cover and check the temperature, because without glancing my direction, he asks, “Something wrong, pretty girl?”
Shit. Fuck.
Two. One.
Breathe.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I squeak out, sounding a little like a rusty door hinge. “Just”—I flick my ponytail over my shoulder and shuffle over to the hot tub—“admiring the view out here is all.”
He side-eyes me and wets his lips.
And I am definitely not looking at his back and shoulder muscles flexing as he hauls the leather cover off to the side.
Nope. Nothing to see here, folks.
“Uh-huh. Well, when you’ve picked your jaw up off the ground, hop in. The temperature is good. I’ll be back out to join you in a minute.”
I shake my head and go to protest, but he’s gone before I have a chance, disappearing beyond the glass patio doors and leaving me to pick up the remaining pieces of my composure from where I left them.
Smoothing a hand down my stomach, I make my way over to the hot tub and set my towel on the bench beside it.
Holding on to the handrail, I climb up the steps and dip my big toe in the water, hissing at the sting from how hot it is.
Ah well. I’m going to hell anyways. Might as well get used to the heat.
Slowly and with bated breath, I climb in, air escaping through my teeth as I sink beneath the bubbling surface and relax back into one of the alcoves.
Alright. Not as bad once you’re in.
Tipping my head back, I stare up at the sky. It’s a hazy gray now. Pretty soon, it’ll be a deep, alluring navy—the same color as Lynx’s eyes—and lit with a million twinkling stars.
The idea that my mother could be up there somewhere, watching over me, flickers through my mind.
But I blink it away and shift my focus to the man hovering in the doorway, his dark eyes trained on me.
His throat bobs as he swallows. And the blood pump in my chest takes off into a gallop.
“Feel better?” he asks as he makes his way over to the stairs and climbs in.
Good lord. I really need to stop looking at his abs. And that delicious V shape between his hips that looks a little like an arrow pointing at the goods.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Good.” He chooses a spot across from me and sinks into the seat, stretching his long arms out across the top of the tub and pinning me with one of those looks that makes all my bones turn to rubber.
When one of his feet bumps mine, I jerk it back on reflex and bite down on my tongue.
Two. One.
Breathe.
Jesus, Harlow. He’s just a man. You deal with them every night at the club. This one’s no different.
Except he is. In so many more ways than I ever could’ve imagined.
And although I don’t want to accept it, because that would mean I’ve been wrong all along, he’s living proof that they’re not all the same the way I thought they were.
We sit there quietly, until the sun is gone and the only light is that of the string of warm white bulbs dangling above us and the pale blue light radiating up from the bottom of the water.
“You’re thinking too hard,” he says. “Let your brain relax for once.”
I shoot him a look. “Is that what you call it when you don’t think before you act? Your brain relaxing?”
“I always think before I act, Harlow. But that doesn’t mean I don’t make mistakes.”
I cock a brow. “So you’re admitting you’re not perfect.”
He angles his head at me. “When have I ever said I was?”
“It was implied.”
“How so?”
“Your confidence, I suppose. Or is it arrogance? It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes.”
He hums. “You think I’m arrogant.”
With sarcasm dripping from my tone, I ask, “Does the Tin Man have a sheet metal cock?”
His lip twitches. “Interesting comparison. Say cock again.”
“Pfft. Not a chance, buddy.”
“Then come here,” he says lowly.
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m good right here, thanks.”
“Harlow. Don’t make me ask twice.”
The baritone in his voice leaves no room for protest.
Rolling my eyes, I scoot over to his side of the hot tub and sink into the seat beside him, leaning away just because I want him to suffer a little while longer.
But when he gently skims his fingers over my thigh, tracing one of the deep scars there, all my stubbornness vanishes in a poof, and I’m left wondering why I was even being petty in the first place.
“You said you killed your father,” he says cautiously, his eyes on mine now. “How?”
“Lynx, I—“
His hand slides higher, tracing another scar. “Just talk to me, little killer. That’s all I’m asking. Lay your traumas out for me. I can handle the truth. And I’ll be here for you if you crumble beneath the weight of it.”
Swallowing the boulder in my throat, I look down at where he’s touching me, watching as his long tattooed finger gently glides over each of my scars.
How a man of his size and profession can be so tender is beyond me.
Yet somehow, he is. To him, I’m like fine glass, delicate in his big hands and easy to break.
I suppose in a way I am. Easy to break. Fragile.
Weak.
Closing my eyes to ward off the tears that threaten to fall, I suck in a lungful of oxygen and let the words fall from my lips.
I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve accepted my situation for what it is, or if it’s because some part of me trusts Lynx, but they come easier than I thought they would.
“I was given a cot. It was old and lumpy and stained with god knows what. The frame was metal and rusty. When I’d lie down on it, broken springs would dig into my back.
But eventually, I got used to it and forgot what it felt like to lie on a proper mattress.
Well, one night, when one of them came down to punish me, he grabbed me by the hair and folded me over the metal footboard.
I held on to it for dear life as he hiked up my dress and …
” I swallow. “You know. He was being rougher than usual. Angry about something and taking it out on me. And the cot was rocking back and forth, and the headboard was smacking against the wall. But by then, I’d figured out how to dissociate.
How to let my mind drift away until it was all over.
So I did that, and I let him take what he needed.
But then I heard a clanking sound and snapped back to reality.
I froze, worried he’d noticed and would hurt me some more.
” I shake my head. “Somehow, it was always my fault. It didn’t matter what it was, it was always my fault. ”
“Harlow,” Lynx grates out.
“You asked for the truth, Lynx. Let me give it to you.”
He goes still and silent, but his body is tense beside mine. I ignore his discomfort and forge on.
“Anyway … he didn’t notice. He was too busy grunting and muttering about whatever had him so pissed off.
So I forced myself to stay in that moment, to endure the pain and horror because for the first time in two years, I had hope.
Finally, when it was all over and he left, I started searching around on the floor.
On my hands and knees in the dark. And then my fingers skimmed something cold and metal.
It was a piece of the bed frame. A long rusty bar with a pointy tip.
” I huff out a dry laugh. “I can still remember the weight of it in my hands. The rough, textured end where it had broken apart.”
I peek up at Lynx to find his dark eyes filled with agony, pity marring his handsome features. Or perhaps it’s sympathy.
It’s hard to tell the difference.
He gives my thigh a gentle squeeze and reaches up to sweep the wet tips of my ponytail off my shoulder.
“And then what happened?”
“I held on to that bar until my father came down to feed me the next day. And then I plunged it into his cold, soulless heart and watched him bleed out on the floor beside me. And only once I was sure that he was dead, I ran.”
There’s a brief moment where I begin to wonder if I’ve made a mistake telling Lynx this. But when he pulls me into his lap so I’m cradled in his arms and brushes his lips over mine, I lose all sense of thought.
“My little killer,” he murmurs against my lips, sweeping his thumb across my cheekbone.
“With the bloodstained hands and broken heart. You may have murdered a man. But you’ve also breathed new life into this one.
And for that alone, I’ll protect the remnants of your soul until the day I die.
You’re mine, Harlow. And I’m nothing if not a man who keeps his word. ”
His words send a flash of lightning through me, striking down on the aching spot inside my chest and dissipating throughout the rest of my body.
He kisses me tenderly, stealing the oxygen from my lungs as his hands roam freely over my curves, and all the pain from uprooting that memory vanishes.
In its place is a warmth that spreads through me like the sun creeping up over the horizon, flooding every dark cavern with hope and light and things I haven’t felt in years.
“Do you trust me, pretty girl?”
A strangled whimper gets lodged in my throat, clogging up my airways.
“Yes,” I whisper.
A satisfied rumble moves through him, and he shifts me in his lap so I’m straddling him. When I feel how hard he is, his bulge pressing against the space between my legs, I gasp and stare down at him, lacing my wet hands through his hair.
“Fucking perfect,” he growls, kissing down the length of my neck and over my collarbone, his lips branding my skin and making the pump in my chest go berserk.
I roll my hips over him, his big hands gripping my ass and guiding me back and forth until I’m panting.
“Tell me what you need,” he murmurs against my throat, his voice thick and husky.
I swallow, heat pricking at my eyes. “Make me forget.”
“Fuck. I wish I could, pretty girl. I wish I could.”
Then he’s kissing me again, licking and sucking and biting every inch of flesh he can find. He reaches behind me and unclasps my bra, my breasts falling free and nipples pebbling from the cool evening air.
The hungry look on Lynx’s face sends a tremor rolling through me. He wets his lips and latches onto one nipple, flicking it with his tongue and nipping at it until it’s painfully hard.
He does that until I’m moaning and tugging at his hair, desperate for more. And then he moves to the other side and repeats the agonizing process.
I breathe out his name on a sigh just as he spins us around and lifts me up onto the edge of the hot tub as if I weigh nothing at all.
On his knees in front of me, he growls, “Fuck, Harlow. I’m starving for you. Now spread your legs and let. Me. Eat.”
Two. One.
Breathe.