17
Cade
My knuckles barely graze Gertrude’s door before it swings open, revealing a slim woman in her late sixties. Her lined face brightens in a grin.
Gertrude Willoughby is a force of nature wrapped in a floral apron—a retired army cadet turned suburban grandmother and the only other person besides Scar and me who can handle Saint without flinching.
“Cade! It’s been a while.” She wipes flour-covered hands on her apron, leaving ghostly handprints. “I was wondering when you’ d re—”
Thunder on hardwood cuts her off as Saint announces himself. A hundred and fifty pounds of pure muscle and devotion barrels toward me, nearly taking me down in his excitement, his entire rear end wagging with unrestrained joy.
I drop to one knee, and Saint claims his spot, his massive front paws landing on my shoulder. As I scratch behind his cropped ears—that one spot he can never quite reach—I feel the tension of the past hours finally start to bleed away. This, right here, with my hand buried in Saint’s thick fur, is the closest thing to peace I know.
“Thanks for watching him, ma’am,” I say, glancing up to catch Gertrude’s knowing smile.
Her dusty hands smooth her apron as she watches us, pale blue eyes twinkling beneath silver brows. “You and I both know he’s been the one watching me.”
True enough. Saint might play the pet for Gertrude, but we all know who’s really guarding whom.
I dip my head in acknowledgment and stand, still hugging Saint. His paws drop to my chest, and he tries to lick my face despite knowing better—his discipline crumbling under excitement.
Remembering the blinking light on her security, I say, “Your memory is full again, ma’am. You forgot to erase the video feeds last week.”
She touches her forehead where silver wisps have escaped her usually neat bun, a flash of frustration crossing her features. “Oh! Three weeks is a long time to remember everything.”
The look we share speaks volumes. We both understand my concern isn’t just about memory space, but her own failing memory.
“On the floor, mate,” I murmur to Saint, who is finally calm enough to let me take his collar off. He hits the hardwood floors with a thud and sits, though his tongue is still lolling and his docked tail beats a staccato rhythm on the floor.
“How was he, ma’am?” I ask Gertrude.
“Oh, he was an absolute gem,” she says, beaming down at us. “We have an understanding, haven’t we, St. Michael? He helps me get my steps in and I let him sit by the window and watch out for you, which is a special treat.”
I chuckle, imagining Gertrude walking Saint with a token collar and leash when, in reality, it was Saint doing the walking. The big brute only obeys verbal commands, and only from people he respects.
“Glad to hear it. I’ll take him off your hands for now. Until next time, ma’am.” I hand the collar back to Gertrude.
As we walk back to Sophie’s, I glance at my watch and ask myself again what the fuck I’m doing. The jet is all prepped. The weather in Moscow won’t hold for much longer.
Yet here I am, leading Saint toward Luna like some twisted test—as if his reaction to her might justify the way my plans crumble every time I see her.
I have a mission. A solid fucking plan. But one look from her sloe eyes sets everything ablaze, leaving me to navigate through the smoke and flames by instinct alone.
Speaking of instinct, I stop and drop to one knee on the sidewalk, bringing myself to eye-level with Saint. “Alright, mate. Sit.”
Saint plants his rump down and his red eyes lock onto mine, alert and ready. The familiar dynamic between us grounds us both.
I run my hand over his broad head and then point to the house. “There’s a woman in there. She’s Cade’s friend. Be nice, Saint. You cannot scare her.” I hesitate before giving the final command. “Lock it down.”
Sai nt’s ears perk up at ‘woman,’ ‘friend,’ and ‘lock it down’ and he gives a low ‘woof’ of understanding. I nod, more to myself than to him. “Right. Let’s go.”
The living room is empty when we return. I spot Luna in the kitchen and immediately notice the open cupboards and drawers. All of them. She whirls around as I reach the doorway, her eyes wide with guilt.
For such a snoop, she’s got the subtlety of a tornado in a china shop.
“I w-was . . . looking for a pen,” she states, her voice higher than usual. “To write down Uncle Jacques’ email . . .”
“Of course you were,” I drawl, not bothering to hide my amusement. “Anyway, this is—”
Saint glides into the kitchen on silent paws, a shadow at my side. The moment Luna spots him, the blood drains from her face,
“What the fuck!” She screeches, eyes wide as saucers. Before I can reassure her, she spins to bolt—right into the corner of an open cupboard door. Her head connects with a solid thunk that makes me wince.
“Shit!” She yelps, stumbling back and clutching her forehead.
Biting back a laugh, I close the distance in two strides, shut the offending cupboard, and lift her onto the counter.
“Let me see.” I brush her hand aside to examine her forehead, only stepping back once I’m sure there’s no serious damage.
Or at least I try to step back. She’s grabbed handfuls of my T-shirt, white-knuckled and wide-eyed.
“What the hell is that?“ she gasps, using her hold on my shirt to maneuver me like her shield.
I glance over my shoulder at Saint who’s standing there, head tilted and muscles taut, like he’s not sure whether to go into protec tion mode or keep his distance. I click my teeth, pointing to the furthest part of the room and he goes over there to sit.
“That’s a dog, princess,” I say, not bothering to hide my grin anymore.
“You don’t say?”
“I promise, he’s not as bad as he looks.”
Her eyes dart between Saint and me, still wild with panic. “Not as bad?” she hisses. “He looks like he eats people for fun!”
“Nah. He’s very protective. His name is St. Michael, but I call him Saint.”
I glance back at Saint then take a calculated step sideways, giving him a clear view of her. She refuses to release my shirt, and something primitive in me enjoys her demand for protection. With deliberate gentleness, I gather her dark silk tresses away from her face then spear my fingers into her nape.
“Hey mate, this is my friend, Luciana.” When I look back at her, I catch something soft and surprised swirling in those dark eyes.
“Wanna go give him an ear scratch?” I whisper, unable to stop my thumb as it strokes along her jawline.
Her eyes widen and she glares at me like I’ve suggested she juggle live grenades.
“Don’t be a wuss,” I murmur, fighting back a wicked grin. “I assure you he’s got better manners than me.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Why do I get the feeling you’re enjoying this?”
I smirk, “Because I’m a dickhead, that’s why.”
Something shifts in her eyes then—that dangerous glint I’m starting to recognize. Her fingers release my shirt, but her touch lingers, as she begins to stroke my abs through the thin material.
“I dunno, Cade.” Her voice has dropped to that velvet tone that makes my cock twitch. “I suppose I could try and give him a coup le of strokes. But he’s just so . . . big.” Her fingertips trail along the hand I’ve got around her neck up to my bicep. “And so unbelievably muscly.”
The smirk dies on my face as pleasure hits like a physical blow. My hand tightens in her hair before I can stop it, and her sharp intake of breath shoots straight to my groin. My focus narrows to the sheen of perspiration on her pouty lip, that perfect Cupid’s bow gleaming like an invitation.
Her pink tongue darts out, gathering the moisture in a slow sweep that makes my jaw clench. The need to chase that tongue, to catch it between my teeth and taste her smart mouth, pounds through me like a fever. A whimper escapes her lips, and I realize I’m gripping her hair too tight. I force my fingers to loosen, even as every instinct screams to pull her closer.
“My God, Cade.” Her voice comes out all silk and sin. “Look how flushed you are.” Those clever fingers trace patterns on my chest. “Did you think I was talking about you?”
That fucking mouth. Always pushing, always testing. My cock throbs with the need to find better uses for it.
“Nah,” she continues, all false innocence now. “I was talking about Saint over there. He’s, um . . . definitely not a sausage dog.” Her eyes dance with wicked amusement. “What is he?”
“Cane Corso,” I manage, the words scraping past the desire thick in my throat. Even my voice betrays how badly I want to show her exactly who I thought she was talking about.
Her eyes rake over me, slow and scorching. “Figures. He looks majestic. Hard. Dominant.” She leans closer, her lips lightly skimming the spot beneath my ear. “A bit of a biter too, I bet?”
“Fuck yeah,” I growl. My hand moves to the front of her neck and holds her in a chokehold.
But she doesn’t back off. Instead, her thighs grip my waist with shocking strength, and she drags herself flush against me, the he at of her core pressing right into my abs through that flimsy lace. Her small hand starts a torturously slow crawl up my torso, fingertips mapping each ridge of muscle like she’s memorizing the terrain, until she’s spanning my neck.
Luna is mirroring my grip, showing me exactly how it feels to be held like that.
And fuck me, do I feel. The touch screams ownership, primitive and raw.
My nostrils flare with an emotion I’d usually strangle before it could breathe—but I can’t. I need her to feel possessed, even as she’s proving she can brand me right back.
Then her fingertips shift, pressing into the angle of my jaw with deliberate precision, and I realize what she’s doing—taking my fucking pulse like I’m a test subject.
The clinical intimacy of it hits me harder than if she’d wrapped that dainty hand around my cock and squeezed. My blood thunders under her touch, betraying exactly what she does to me.
I growl, “You’re playing a dangerous game, princess.”
“Oh, I know,” she murmurs. “But tell me one thing . . . does your heart always race this much when someone’s playing with you, or is that reaction saved for just me?”
Pleasure surges through me at her boldness, at the way she wields that sultry voice like a weapon.
Her own breaths come in shallow puffs against my throat, her thighs squeezing the shit out of me, and I can practically smell her arousal off her soaked panties.
Yet she keeps pushing, teasing like she doesn’t care if she gets burned alive—as long as she drags me into the flames with her.
Sophie’s right. She’s under my skin. Not even twenty-four hours, and she’s burrowed so deep I feel her in my bones. It’s the way she plays with me, the way she picks at the edges of my control until I want to snap and show her exactly how I play, too.
Somehow, I find the willpower to pull back from the edge. Unlocking her ankles from around my waist, I step back, putting much-needed distance between us. “If you’re going to be such a wise-ass, then you can meet Saint on your own.”
I leave the kitchen and head toward the den, my body thrumming with everything I want to do to her.
“Hey, hey! Where are you going?” she calls, hopping off the counter and chasing after me.
Glancing back, I let her catch the smirk tugging at my lips. “Why, to calm my racing heart, princess. Try not to get eaten while I’m gone.”
I pitch my voice louder. “My friend wants to say hi, Saint!”
Stepping into the den, I let the door close softly behind me.
“Bastard!” she spits.
I bite back a laugh as I lean against the door, half expecting her to throw herself against it, screaming bloody murder to get away from Saint.
For a moment, there’s only silence. Sounds like someone’s busy trying not to shit themselves.
A grin splits my face, the part of me still burning from her touch savoring this payback.
Saint wouldn’t hurt her, but letting her think he might? That I can live with. A little humility might do her some good.
You like taming wild things, princess? Have a fucking go.