Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Gray
Ten days with Beck in my cabin, and I've decided to let her return to the diner.
Not because I want to. Every instinct screams to keep her locked away, safe, where no one else can see her.
But she was going stir-crazy, and I need her happy.
Need her choosing to stay, not feeling trapped.
So I drive her to her shift, park my truck where I can see the entire diner through the front windows, and settle in to watch.
Like I did for weeks before she knew I existed.
The difference is now she knows I'm here.
Now she looks up every few minutes, eyes finding mine through the glass, a small smile curving those soft lips that were wrapped around my cock this morning.
The paperwork to clear her name is moving, but slowly. Bureaucracy is a bitch even when you're calling in favors. Meanwhile, I've tracked three bounty hunters to this area in the past week. Dealt with two already. They won't be a problem anymore.
Beck moves between tables, coffee pot in hand, that little waitress smile in place. She's different now—still watchful, but the haunted look is fading from her eyes. She stands straighter. She doesn't flinch at loud noises. She's sleeping through the night, curled against my chest.
Mine. The word pulses with every beat of my heart.
A blue sedan pulls into the parking lot.
Instinct prickles at the base of my skull before I consciously register why.
The car is too clean. Too nondescript. A rental.
The man who steps out confirms my suspicion—mid-forties, weathered face, scanning the surroundings with the practiced sweep of someone used to hunting. Bounty hunter. Has to be.
I watch him enter the diner, choose a booth with a clear view of both exits. Professional. Dangerous. My hand moves to the knife at my belt, the gun holstered under my jacket.
Through the window, I see Beck approach his table. She doesn't recognize the danger, gives him the same polite smile she gives everyone. Takes his order. Turns away.
His eyes follow her ass as she walks to the kitchen.
Red edges my vision.
I'm out of the truck and across the parking lot in seconds. Enter the diner, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully. Beck looks up, surprise crossing her face at seeing me inside instead of watching from the truck.
"Everything okay?" she asks, balancing plates for another table.
"Fine," I tell her, eyes locked on the bounty hunter who's now studying me with professional interest. "Just need to use the bathroom."
She nods, moving away to deliver her order. I walk past the hunter's booth, deliberately catching his eye. The challenge is clear in my gaze. He doesn't look away. Smart enough to recognize another predator, not smart enough to back down.
I continue to the back hallway, past the bathrooms, to the rear exit. Wait.
Three minutes later, the door pushes open. The hunter steps out, hand already moving to his waistband.
"Looking for someone?" I ask from behind him.
He spins, fast for his age, but not fast enough. My fist connects with his throat before he can draw his weapon.
"Beck Monroe," he chokes out, staggering back. "Where is she?"
"Not your concern." I advance on him, backing him against the dumpster. "Job's been pulled. Bounty's invalid."
He sneers through pain. "Bullshit. Twenty grand says different."
"Walk away," I warn, giving him one chance. More than he deserves for looking at what's mine. "Find another payday."
His hand moves again, faster this time. A glint of metal.
What happens next is muscle memory. Violence programmed into me through years of dirty work for dirtier men. I don't enjoy it. Don't hate it either. It's just necessary.
When it's done, I wipe my knife on his jacket. He's still breathing. Might even walk again someday. I'm not a monster. But he won't be hunting anyone for a long, long time.
I text Marge from Beck's phone, apologizing for a sudden illness. Then I find Beck restocking napkin dispensers, wrap my arm around her waist, and guide her quickly out the front door.
"Gray, what—" she begins.
"Gotta go. Now."
She sees the blood on my knuckles, the cold flatness in my eyes. Smart girl doesn't argue, just lets me bundle her into the truck.
We're halfway back to the cabin before she speaks. "Another bounty hunter?"
I nod, eyes on the road, scanning for followers. There won't be any. I was thorough.
"Did you kill him?" Her voice is small.
"No." I reach across the console, squeezing her thigh. "Didn't need to."
She's quiet for the rest of the drive, but her hand covers mine where it rests on her leg. Not pulling away. Not afraid of the blood drying on my skin. Progress.
At the cabin, she follows me inside wordlessly. Locks the door behind us. Then she's pulling me to the bathroom, gentle but insistent.
"Sit," she orders, pointing to the closed toilet lid.
I comply, watching as she wets a washcloth, kneels between my legs, and begins cleaning the blood from my knuckles. Her touch is tender, careful around the split skin.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, not looking up from her task.
"No." Nothing hurts when she's touching me.
She cleans each finger meticulously, revealing the damage beneath the blood. Not serious. I've had much worse. When she's satisfied, she reaches for antiseptic in the medicine cabinet, dabs it onto the cuts.
"You did this for me," she says, still not meeting my eyes.
"Yes."
"You hurt people for me."
"Yes."
Finally, she looks up, those hazel eyes searching mine. "Why?"
"You know why." My voice drops to a growl, hand coming up to cup her face. "You're mine to protect."
Something shifts in her expression—fear melting into something darker, needier. Her hands rest on my thighs, fingers digging into the muscle.
"Say it again," she whispers.
"Mine." I thread my fingers through her hair, gripping tight enough to make her gasp. "No one hunts what's mine."
And then she's surging up, claiming my mouth in a desperate kiss that tastes like gratitude and need and something deeper neither of us is ready to name. I haul her into my lap, her legs straddling my thighs, her core pressing against my rapidly hardening cock.
"Need you," she breathes against my mouth. "Now. Please."
We don't make it to the bedroom. Don't even make it out of the bathroom. I stand, lifting her with me, and lower her to the tile floor. Her hands pull frantically at my clothes, and I help, shucking my jacket, my shirt, revealing more bruises and cuts from the fight.
She gasps at the sight but doesn't stop, her hands moving to my belt, working it open with newfound urgency.
I push her dress up around her waist, yank her panties down her legs.
No time for slow. Not now. Not with adrenaline still pumping through my veins, with the primal need to claim what I just defended.
"Gray," she moans as I position myself between her thighs, the head of my cock nudging at her entrance. She's already wet, ready for me. Always ready.
"Daddy," I correct, pushing inside in one smooth thrust that makes her cry out. "Say it."
"Daddy!" She arches beneath me, taking me deeper. "Please, Daddy, fuck me."
I lose my mind at her filthy plea, setting a punishing pace that has her sliding against the tile with each thrust. One hand braces beside her head, the other grips her hip hard enough to bruise.
"Now let Daddy breed you hard," I growl against her neck, biting down on the tender skin where her pulse races. "Fill you with my seed until you forget the world."
She whimpers, legs wrapping around my waist to pull me deeper. "Yes, yes, please—"
"This is why I hunt for you," I tell her, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust. "Why I bleed for you. To keep this pussy safe. To keep it mine."
Her nails rake down my back, adding fresh stings to my collection of injuries. I don't care. The pain only heightens the pleasure, reminds me I'm alive. We're both alive.
"Gonna fill you up," I promise, feeling my release building. "Put my baby in you so everyone knows who you belong to."
"Yours," she gasps, her inner walls beginning to flutter around me. "Only yours, Daddy. Always—"
Her words cut off as orgasm claims her, her body arching beneath mine, pussy clenching rhythmically around my cock.
The sight of her coming undone—because of me, for me—pushes me over the edge.
I bury myself deep inside her and let go, pumping her full of my seed with a roar that echoes off the bathroom walls.
We lie tangled on the cold tile, catching our breath, sweat cooling on our skin. I'm still inside her, unwilling to break the connection. Her fingers trace patterns on my shoulder, careful to avoid the fresh bruises.
"Thank you," she whispers, turning to press a kiss to my bicep. "For protecting me."
I nuzzle into her neck, breathing in her scent mixed with mine. "Always will."
And I mean it. Will hunt down every threat. Will kill if necessary. Will burn the fucking world if it means keeping her safe. The intensity of this feeling should scare me. Instead, it feels like purpose. Like the reason I survived all those years of violence and darkness.
To find her. To claim her. To keep her.
Forever.