22
Luna
I wake up groggy, my eyelids sealed shut in a way that tells me I slept like the dead. My face is buried in a pillow that smells disappointingly like fabric softener. I take a deep breath, searching for that deliciously rugged scent I woke up to yesterday morning.
Nope. Nothing but laundered cotton. And . . . coffee.
He obviously doesn’t sleep here.
“You’re such a buzzkill, Cade Quinn,” I mumble into the pillow, my mind already replaying reminders of his scent . . . his taste . . . the feel of that long, thick finger working me to a fever . . . the skill and utter dominance in his touch.
No one, absolutely no one who kisses like that should be wrapped in such a callous package. Delilah would have a field day if she knew—
I freeze as pain slices through me. Her betrayal is a wound too fresh to fully process. I trusted her while she served me up for a fate worse than death. My stomach twists to think how many other women she’s done this to. Which only makes me more grateful that Cade went out of his way to help me.
Not that it means shit now, considering he’s likely jetted off to fucking Siberia, and left me to fend for myself until his ‘so-called’ help arrives. Apparently, wrapping that stupid rosary around Antonov’s neck is more important than . . .
Me.
“Ugh, Luna, get a grip,” I mumble. “You don’t mean anything to him. The sooner you get that into your stupid head, the better.”
Uncle Jacques is the safe choice. He’s wealthy and powerful enough to protect me. It makes sense to go to him. The last twenty-four hours have been the most insanely terrifying in my entire life. I should be grateful to leave it all behind.
But there it is again—that jolt low in my belly.
I like being terrified.
I bury my head under the pillow and groan. “Cade Quinn is a whole fucking parade of red flags. Good riddance to him.”
“Stop it. You’re hurting my feelings.” Cade’s deep baritone cuts through my grogginess.
I yank the pillow off and whip around to find him sprawled in the chair across the room, one leg casually draped over the other knee. He’s holding a steaming mug of coffee in one hand while a chunky tablet sits in his lap. His tight white T-shirt shows off two full sleeves of ink and corded muscles.
“Cade! You’re still here!” My face splits into a stupid grin, my voice embarrassingly breathy with relief.
“I leave in forty-five minutes.”
And just like that, the warmth in my chest evaporates. “Great.” I force my voice into something approaching nonchalance. “Well. How long have you been sitting there?”
“ Long enough.” He takes a sip of coffee while tapping on his tablet.
Why? I want to ask, but my eyes are distracted by his tattoos. Twin crosses mark the insides of his scarred wrists each with identical guardians—angels or demons, I can’t quite tell from here. More ink winds up his biceps in elegant scripts too distant to decode, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his shirt.
Now I’m staring. And by the curl of his lips, he knows it without even looking up.
Before I can demand why he’s decided to set up surveillance at my bedside, I spot a pair of blood-red eyes.
Perched on his haunches beside Cade, Saint stares at me. I almost shudder when I remember the way he snarled at Cade yesterday—that deep territorial growl of protection.
Did I really pet that thing? I must have been riding high on all that adrenaline because, in the harsh morning light, Saint looks exactly like what he is—a perfectly trained demon.
As if catching my train of thought, Cade flicks his wrist. Saint immediately drops to his belly and looks away, the shift from menacing to dejected so sudden, my chest tightens with guilt.
Saint’s not winning any “World’s Prettiest Dog” awards, but . . . he probably thought we were past all that after our cute moment yesterday. And now I’m back to treating him like a monster.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble, not sure who needs the apology. “He’s just . . . jarring.”
“I know,” Cade murmurs distractedly. “Give it a couple of days. You’ll get used to him.”
“Oh, I think I’ll need more than a few days—” I freeze as the implication hits me. “What?” I blink, certain I’ve misheard.
“I said, he’ll grow on you, princess.” His eyes stay fixed on the tablet like this conversation is barely worth his attention.
“ I thought you were leaving.”
He takes a deliberate sip of his coffee. “And I thought you cried yourself to sleep because you didn’t want me to.”
Heat floods my cheeks as my fists clench under the covers, fighting the urge to throw the nearest object at his perfect, smug head. I’ve been awake for less than five minutes, and he’s already crawling under my skin.
“You’re right,” I say, dragging every ounce of sarcasm into my tone. “I can’t get enough of you. Though you’re clearly just as desperate, considering you’ve been parked there for God knows how long, watching me sleep like some high end stalker.”
That gets his attention. His eyes snap up from the tablet, and for a heartbeat, something flashes in those depths—something that looks disturbingly like possessiveness. It vanishes so quickly I might have imagined it, replaced by a smirk.
“What can I say? I focus better with white noise.” His smirk widens just enough to be infuriating. “And your snoring was the perfect backdrop.”
“I do not snore.”
Do I? Surely Reese would have smothered me with a pillow if I did. She’s bitchy like that.
“Want cold hard evidence?” He pats the tablet with a look that promises both embarrassment and entertainment.
“Oh, fuck off.” I will not smile. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s cracking me up. But my lips are threatening to betray me, so I do what any self-respecting woman would do.
I fling off the covers and surge out of bed.
I’m halfway across the room when the morning air hits me in places it definitely shouldn’t. The unusually breezy sensation below my waist can only mean one thing.
Oh. Shit.
I ’d stumbled to bed in my tattered skirt and crotchless panties, then woken up sometime in the dark to strip, leaving only my tissue-thin white cami.
Which means I’m now standing in the middle of the room with my bare ass on full display.
The tapping stops. Even Saint’s rhythmic huffing goes silent—as if the hellhound himself has enough decency to acknowledge the gravity of this spectacularly awkward moment.
I don’t dare look back, but the heat prickling along my skin tells me where Cade’s eyes are.
Summoning every shred of dignity I have left, I force my legs to carry me to the bathroom. Measured steps. No running. The door clicks shut behind me, and I collapse against it, my heart pounding like I’ve just sprinted a marathon.
“It’s alright, Luna,” I mutter, dragging in deep breaths to calm the storm raging in my chest. But it spikes again the second I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Oh, for the love of—
My nipples are tight and furled, two shameless peaks straining against the thin, nearly translucent cami. The piercings only make them more obvious.
Perfect. Just perfect. One more thing for him to gloat about.
And as for modesty? A narrow strip of a towel! My brain scrambles to calculate the lesser evil and pick between covering my chest or my pussy. With a resigned sigh, I wrap the towel around my waist like a makeshift sarong.
Not that it matters now. The horse has not only bolted, the fucking barn is burned down.
When I step back into the room, his eyes are already waiting—dark and scorching. They travel over me with deliberate slowness; a physical caress that sets every nerve ending on fire.
Whe n his gaze locks onto my breasts, I swear it feels like a blowtorch through the fabric. To my horror, my nipples grow even harder and start to ache despite my silent commands to behave.
Say something, Luna. Something snarky about his obvious staring. A casual comment about the weather—anything. But my tongue seems to have gone on vacation. All I manage is a shaky breath that probably gives away exactly how much his attention affects me.
I dive back under the covers, sighing in relief when his eyes finally release their hold. What is wrong with me? The man finger fucked me yesterday, and now I’m blushing because he looked at my tits?
“That’s for you.” Cade nods toward the foot of the bed where a large glossy shopping bag sits, its designer logo catching the light like a beacon.
Gifts? My eyebrow lifts in what I hope is sophisticated indifference, but I’m already reaching for the bag, curiosity winning over pride. I dump the contents onto the bed, and this time I can’t stop my gasp.
Three pairs of jeans spill out first—one dark wash, another gray with hand-distressed details, and a black pair with a stretch that promises to hug every curve. Half a dozen tops, ranging from tissue-thin cashmere to draped jersey in blacks, deep wines, and midnight blues that would make my skin glow. A pair of buttery leather Louboutin boots.
They’re all in my size, which is impressive enough, but then my fingers brush against French lace and silk.
Lingerie. The kind designed to make a man’s hands shake when unwrapping.
“ Will they do?” He sounds almost . . . uncertain, though it’s quickly swallowed by that gruffness he always seems to carry with him.
I should be grateful; These items are exactly what I’d pick out myself. But an alien feeling twists my gut. Cade didn’t choose these himself. He didn’t stand in some boutique, imagining how silk would feel against my skin. Someone else did that for him—a woman who knows his tastes and how to shop for ‘his women.’
“I suppose,” I snap. “Thank her for me.”
“Sure.”
His dismissive tone makes my teeth ache, and I find myself asking, “Who’s she, anyway?”
He lets the silence stretch until it’s almost painful, then his eyes finally meet mine. “My sister.”
The floor disappears beneath me. My jaw drops so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the mattress. His sister? The woman whose cabinets I snooped through, whose bed I’m sitting in . . . is his sister?
Before I can pepper him with the thousand questions suddenly crowding my mouth—he shifts gears with whiplash speed.
“Listen. I can take you somewhere safe.”
“Where?” I ask, my brain still processing the ‘sister’ comment, while trying to keep up with this new direction.
He slowly sets his coffee mug down. “It’s a small town in San Diego County, two days’ drive from here.” His lips quirk. “Not five-star luxury, but you’ll be safe. And I’d bet happy as a pig in shit—there’s plenty of walking red flags there.”
The metaphor practically begs for a sharp comeback, but he presses on before I can find my tongue.
“Everything else, princess, you’ll just have to trust me.”
The way he says it makes it sound simple. Like trusting him isn’t the most dangerous thing I could possibly do.
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “And what about Moscow? Your plans with Antonov?”
“I’ll get there when I get there.” He sounds bored. Like international crime is just another calendar entry.
“So what’s it going to be? Jacques Devereaux . . .” His eyes lock onto mine. “ . . . or me?”
The air thickens as the question hangs between us. Here it is—the moment to make the smart choice.
Every self-preservation instinct I possess is setting off air raid sirens.
Run. Go to Paris. Choose safety.
But I can’t look away from him. From the way he sprawls in that chair like it’s a throne, his fingers casually stroking Saint’s head, although there’s nothing casual about the rest of him. He radiates some kind of magnetic force field that pulls at me.
Compels me.
I bet it’s the same force that makes moths fly into flames, knowing they’ll burn, yet unable to resist the light.
I chew my lip, weighing sanity against desire.
Screw it.
I drop the airs. He’s seen me with my guard down enough to last a lifetime—what’s one more?
“Paris would be the sensible choice,” I whisper, not bothering to hide behind sass or seduction. “But I want to come with you.”
Something ignites in his eyes, hot as lava and twice as dangerous. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.
“Alright.” His gravelly voice scrapes against something raw and hungry inside me. “Your father’s already been told you won’ t be coming home until he gets his priorities straight about your safety.”
I nod, trying not to think of how that conversation went down.
Cade straightens. “Now, you have my word: as long as Saint and I are breathing, no one will hurt you.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. For someone who acts so cold, he sure is serious about protecting me.
“You must promise me something in return, princess.”
“What?”
“Don’t get me hurt.”
What the hell? I blink, thrown off balance.
I can’t even knee the man in the groin. How could I hurt him? What’s even more confusing is his tone. He’s talking about himself like he’s an object, a weapon he doesn’t want damaged.
“How am I supposed to not get you hurt?”
“Don’t lie to me. You can flirt with me all you want, princess, but if you can’t trust me, that’s the door.”
My heart falters. He’s asking—demanding the one thing I’ve guarded like a fortress.
Truth.
Saint turns his massive head to look at me, his eyes glinting with a strange, knowing intelligence. Then he drops his head back on his paw and looks almost . . . imploring.
Is that even possible?
“Fine, I won’t get a scratch on you,” I say with an eye roll, but his words echo like warning bells.
Cade simply grunts, then unfolds from the chair with lethal grace. “I’m taking Saint for a walk, then I’ll bring the truck around. We leave in thirty minutes.”
“Okay. ”
Half an hour. This is real. I’m actually choosing Cade Quinn. A trafficker.
He pauses at the door, sighing when he realizes Saint hasn’t budged. “Move your fucking ass, St. Michael, and stop making eyes at Luciana!”
The sound of my full name in his rough baritone feels like a stroke along my back. I open my mouth to tell him to call me Luna, but the words stick in my throat.
After a moment, Saint heaves himself up and slinks past Cade. “Suck-up,” he mutters as they disappear through the door.
The silence settles like dew, and I let out a shaky breath, wrapping trembling arms around my knees.
Luciana. He even calls it the proper—the Italian way.
To everyone else, I’m Luna. Party girl. Wildcard. Family disappointment. But on Cade’s lips, Luciana feels like something sacred. Desirable. A deliberate claiming as . . . his.
I groan. Oh for fuck’s sake, Luciana, pull your shit together. Next, you’d be swooning at his feet. And honestly? You’d deserve the swift kick he’d give you for it.
But a sister, though? Didn’t see that one coming.
What kind of woman is she? And what can she tell me about the man I’ve promised to trust?
I push off the bed and scan the room. It’s minimalist with a soft pastel palette. Absolutely nothing like the luxury dripping from the clothes she bought for me.
Anticipation courses through me with every step as I cross the room to her closet.
Time to see what other secrets you’re hiding, Cade Quinn.