She chuckles lightly, not sounding at all put off by Levi’s small amount of shade. “If you were around at all, you’d know I don’t.”
“Wharf Bay isn’t my thing.”
“Maybe it was a one-night thing, then.”
The temperature of my blood spikes at her innuendo because I’m not an idiot. They’ve fucked, and he’s come here—to Wharf Bay—and I want to rip her perfect hair out of her beautiful head and throw it at her.
“Bay…” I hear Ozzy mutter, trying to calm my rising temper, but I don’t allow it to wear off.
I’m pissed.
I have no right to be, no pot to piss in or leg to stand on when it comes to it, but I am. Levi and I weren’t a thing. He had a life, and I had mine. Even though they intertwined, and we’ve always been together, we didn’t sit down every Sunday and discuss who we fucked the week before.
Nonetheless, the last thing I want to see or hear about—eventhinkabout—is Levi fuckingher.
I can’t compare to Carina’s grace and beauty if it was shoved down my throat. That girlie-girl shit wouldn’t be something I’d ever be able to nail down.
And it’s always what I pictured Levi with.
Someone who would be super sweet with a bit of bite to her but always down for her man. Who would be in cute dresses, baking some stupid shit for him to chow down like an animal and always there to support him and what he does.
Accepting.
And Carina comes from a powerful family, knows how to ride or die, and is perfect for the job.
Warm skin gently brushes against my knuckles, causing my immediate focus to slice right over to Ozzy.
His blue eyes are calm, collected, and obviously fully aware of what’s happening in my head.
Maybe it’s my resting bitch face.
Maybe I was scowling.
I hear Carina speak, but I don’t register the words when I’m deeply lost in my husband’s line of sight. He controls the narrative when he has me like this. He doesn’t need words or anything else besides my name to take full control of me.
Normally, it’d be a pain in my ass.
But right now, I can’t throw down over shit that happened only God knows how long ago.
Levi has a past.
So do I.
And he’s been patient as fuck with me while I navigate my shit, these boys, and he still wants me anyway.
I nod, acknowledging I’m aware of what Ozzy wants me to do.
He wants me to chill.
And I’m trying—ish.
“Mr. Wallace.” A male voice illuminates the space, breaking mine and Ozzy’s moment as we both watch Lorenzo Black gingerly limping through the living room from the foyer with a cane for support. “I appreciate you coming by.”
God, how badly was he hurt?
I remember the blood and him being in and out of consciousness, but I didn’t think he’d turn out this badly.
He gestures toward the two sets of couches as his wife approaches his side, probably to be of assistance if he needs it. “Please take a seat.”
