Tell me about it. She’d been so tight and hot that he’d nearly lost his mind. All he’d wanted to do was slam into her. Again and again and?—
I had to make it good for her. So he’d held onto his control with a death grip, until he’d felt her come around his cock.
He climbed from the bed. Stalked into the bathroom and ditched the condom.
You just fucked an FBI agent.
One who had, apparently, not been with a lover in years.
Yeah, he was gonna need to get an answer to his question. Why the hell did she decide to fuck me? Naked, he marched back into the bedroom, and, this time, he flipped on the overhead lights.
Illumination immediately flooded in the bedroom. Bright.
She grimaced and blinked from her pose on the bed. Not holding tight to the headboard any longer. Instead, Agnes had flipped around. She’d been crouching in the middle of the bed, as if she’d been about to jump out of the bed, and he could see her perfectly now. Every single inch. Those gorgeous breasts. Those silky legs.
The…
Knife wounds that rained across her stomach and abdomen.
His breath shuddered out. “What. The. Fuck?”
“Oh, you’re going to be difficult about this, aren’t you?” She grabbed the cover and hauled it over her body.
She had no idea. In two breaths, he was across the room. He yanked the cover off her and glared at the old scars. Stab wounds. He should know. He had some, too. But he slowly and carefully counted the thin, white lines that cut into her soft skin. He touched each one.
Seven. She’d been stabbed seven fucking times.
His breath sawed in and out as a killing rage filled his blood. Slowly, his gaze rose.
Her eyes widened as she took in his expression. “Uh, Cass?”
“Tell me his name.” All he needed was a name. He would be able to find the bastard. Put him in the ground. “And I’ll kill him for you.”
Chapter Four
She had the naked leader of the Strikers offering to kill for her.
Not exactly what Agnes had put on her bingo card for the day but…
She’d take it, thanks.
Holy hell, but the man is hot. The overhead light poured plenty of illumination on them, and her gaze kept darting over his chest. His very broad chest. Powerfully muscled. A chest that also had its share of swirling tats. A tiger with razor-sharp claws. A skull with burning eyes. A big phoenix over his left shoulder, with its black wings spread.
And…maybe her gaze also dropped. Went down, down to see his?—
“Name,” Cass bit out. “You think I don’t know the marks left from a knife’s blade when I see them?”
Her stare whipped up to lock with his blazing eyes. With her left hand, she also tugged the bedspread up to cover her body.
As to the marks on her, he was correct. They had come from a blade. One that had been driven into her a very long time ago. A horrible night that had changed everything for her.
She’d stopped wanting to be an artist. She’d stopped seeing the beauty in the world. All she’d seen had been darkness. Especially when she watched as the man she loved be buried in that rainy cemetery. She hadn’t been able to tell the difference between her own tears and the rain.
She’d just stood there, crying, staring at the flowers on the grave as they got soggier and soggier, and her brothers had been so worried about her. They’d said she was too injured. Too weak. That she had to go. That it was time.
They’d finally carried her away from the gravesite. Until the day she died, Agnes was sure she’d remember crying into Ryan’s neck as he cradled her.
“Agnes.” Cass put his hand on her cheek.
