Jax: Hear that? It’s too fucking early for feelings, Axel.
Maddox: Hard to get is better. He’s chased her for years.
Cash: Her turn.
Axel: What if she comes back, doesn’t chase you, and ends up hating you for hiding things from her?
Me: I’ll deal with it. They’ll be with me. I’d rather live with her hating me or not wanting me than suffer through not being near them and not knowing they’re safe. I can’t go through that again.
Me: And it’s not completely one-sided. She can’t see it, but she feels something.
Axel: Because of the spark you felt?
Me: Yeah. And because she renamed Jett—Remy, short for Remington.
The rapid-fire replies cease until all the texts hit at once.
Cash: Mic drop.
Maddox: Sniff that fucking hair.
Jax: Fuck, man.
Axel: I’ll get the rooms and her office prepared. Bring them home.
ALICEMERCY
As I’m getting ready for the day, I hear the soft murmur of chatter droning from the kitchen. So, no, all that twisted shit that occurred last night was not because my red wine had been spiked. Ryker is here. He said all the bizarre things that made no sense and messed with my head.
About a half hour ago, Remy charged into my room with his plush bulldog in his arms, bouncing, stringing his fingers through my hair, and telling me I’mbootiful, like he does most mornings. My little hyper Casanova. I told him we had a visitor and bribed him with a show so I could make myself feel human before we emerged, but apparently, the lure of our guest was more thrilling than cartoons.
With Ryker in my space, offering me opportunities and claiming things that confuse everything, the past three years of self-help I’ve trudged through swirl down the drain with my face wash.
I can’t quite explain it. But part of me is back in that living room I loathed, with the country-chic decor, pristine white furniture, and pictures of lies on the walls, praying that if thenext blow kills me, Ryker will get to my baby before Dalton takes him.
Pieces of Dalton’s cryptic phone conversation jam together, but never fit, my mind unable to grip them. The recollection of him being far more aggravated than remorseful yet still somewhat desperate, confessing, “It happened again,” and, “I need help getting her out of here,” and some other mumblings comes and goes. Like he’s talking underwater and I can’t quite make it out.
It’s not Ryker’s fault that he sends me back there. He was always the person who showed up for me, who strengthened me, who was my ride or die. Except part of me did die that night, and he’s tangled up on that bloody floor with my corpse.
My chest is instantly heavy, limbs like lead. Telltale signs of an impending breakdown.
Not today.
Shoving the dread and panic to the place where I store the remnants of that girl, I run a brush through my hair, smooth out my long-sleeved top, and sneak through the hall, sliding down the wall to a crouched position so I can stay out of sight but still listen. A quick peek around the corner reveals that Ryker came here as a threat to ovaries everywhere. I’m not sure what he’s playing at. He’s all raw sex appeal and determined to flaunt it, to turn everything we were upside down and ask me for commitments that feel likemore.
“We’re not friends, Mercy.”
It’s equal parts infuriating, overwhelming, and …alluring.
That may be because my libido is an angry sea monster, threatening to swallow all life-forms if she isn’t fed.
Thinking back on my willingness to overlook my subpar attraction to Mustache Chad in pursuit of a flimsy promise for a three-second orgasm, I decide that is entirely likely.
There’s nothing to see here. Myex-best friend is hanging with my boy. That’s all.
Ryker is flipping pancakes—wearing a tight T-shirt that pulls taut against his sculpted muscles and gray joggers that drape loosely overeverything, which I’m definitelynotlooking at—while Remy perches at the table, watching with intrigue.
“I like your picture,” Remy says in his sweet voice, pointing to a tattoo sticking out of Ryker’s sleeve as he uses his other hand to push his messy chestnut locks off his forehead.
