What the fuck?
“Stop crying.” The demand leaves my lips, harsh and flat. The tears don’t stop. If anything, I’ve made it worse; the silence of her weeping is somehow louder than any sob. “Crocodile tears don’t work around here, sweetheart.”
The words come out, but they lack their usual bite. Rather than mocking her, it sounds like I’m trying to convince myself.
“Don’t kill me.” She gasps the plea, wincing as if bracing for a final blow.
The reaction is so disproportionate that it startles me. I’ve hardly even made contact with her. My hold is firm and certain, but not aggressive. Not at this point. The pure fear in her voice is usually amusing to me; it often is. But now, it feels… out of sync.
“I’m just looking for someone, that’s all!” The words tumble out in a frantic, blurring rush. She tells me her name is Haven, that she’s looking for Ghost’s new girl, confirming my suspicions and making me that much more glad that I gave them my cabin to crash in for the time being.
Somehow, she’s with the Crimson Road MC. The same bastards I’ve held a grudge over for the last decade.
By the time she finishes spilling all her secrets, she’s breathing in ragged, shallow pulls, the precipice of a full-blown panic attack.
What a lousy spy—definitely the worst I’ve ever encountered. Usually, I’d suspect she’s just telling me what she thinks I want to hear, but in this case, I have no doubt that what she’s saying is actually the truth.
A stillness settles over me. Usually, my interactions with women are straightforward—a different kind of transaction, one of mutual understanding. It’s the men I reduce to this state, the ones who cross us, and their sobs are a symphony of victory. A job well done.
But this? Watching her composure collapse, seeing the genuine, undignified fear… I don’t feel the cold satisfaction I should. There’s no familiar thrum of power.
There’s just a strange, hollow ache in my chest, a disquieting sense that I’m holding a wounded bird. The urge to tighten my grip wars with a sudden, inexplicable impulse to loosen it.
Again, what the fuck?
Releasing her, much to my dismay, I’m wiping my wrist on my jeans as I try to put together who this woman really is. More questions are filling my mind, demanding answers. However, to get them is a challenge in itself.
If I touch her again, will she flood the room with her tears?
“I lasted twenty minutes.” She crouches and covers her face like she can hide away from the world. “Twenty minutes.”
Thirty, actually. However, I don’t think knowing that will help her.
Groaning and mumbling words I can’t understand, I give her time to express herself so I can understand and use the information. By her pleas’ end, I catch her worries of death.
“I’m not going to kill you.” Stating the obvious, my lips purse together when she wipes her nose with her wrist. “Torturing a pretty face isn’t my thing.”
That, and something feels off about seeing her face twist in pain as I try to get more answers. Honestly, with how easy it was to get the information I have now, I just need to ask, and the truth will spill out effortlessly.
Nothing’s really that easy, though. If someone catches us together like this, they’re going to take one look at her and thinkI’mthe bad guy here. They’ll come to her rescue, and I’ll be left alone with this strange sensation clawing at my chest.
I need Haven to collect herself.
Knees aching, I’m forced to sit in front of her. As ridiculous as this all is, I wait until she sobers up enough for her shoulders to stop trembling.
As much as my patience is tested, I keep my mouth shut to avoid making anything worse. Hell, I almost ask her if she’s alright, but stop myself before I risk falling into any traps. While I wait, I’m forced to take her in.
She’s on the younger side. Probably nineteen or twenty. Too young to be dealing with all of this mess. Don’t know who her brother is, but he must be a piece of work if he’s making her go through all of this.
Paulie.Trouble’s a better fitting name, if I have any say.
She’s got a few brown strands of hair clinging to her wet cheeks, and my fingers are itching to push them out of her face. Damn. I’m more deprived than I initially thought.
Lowering her hands, she sniffles. Despite her flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, it’s clear she’s my type, as something stirs within me.
Then again, have I ever gone for the innocent-looking ones?Never.Prudes are time-consuming. Too clingy for a one or two-time thing. While I want fun, they want to settle down and put a damn ring on my finger.Marriage.
Just the thought has me wondering what this woman would look like in white lace. Not just a dress, but the sexy lingerie beneath it, clinging to her thighs and stomach. My cock likes the image as much as my brain, swelling even harder.Fuck me.
