Why is he going for his gun?
My heart stumbles.
He doesn’t say a word. Just checks the magazine and tucks the weapon against the small of his back, that wild, feral look already flaring in his eyes. It’s the look he wore the first night I met him. The one that promises destruction. Then he’s at the door, unlocking it quietly.
I don’t breathe. I’m too stunned. It’s been months since anything bad happened. Since the last gunshot. Since the blood. Since I was dragged away in the dirt and forced into a game of life or death by my own family.
Why the hell is he freaking out over a noise?
What is he expecting?
Is there something he’s not telling me?
I stand slowly, muscles still shaky. I smooth my skirt back down over my hips, grab my underwear from the floor, and slide them on. I wipe between my thighs with a tissue from the desk drawer—something he usually insists on doing. But he jumped out of me like we were under attack.
He comes back in a minute later, shutting the door behind him. His shoulders drop. A hint of relief. “False alarm,” he mutters.
I don’t smile. I just stare at him, my voice low and steady. “Why did you react like that?”
He looks up. “Like what?”
“What’s going on, Damian? Why did you jump off me like that? Just from a noise?” My pulse hammers in my throat. Something is off. I can feel it. The energy between us shifted the moment that floorboard creaked, like a switch flipped behind his eyes. My chest cinches tight, like the air turns to glass, and with every breath I wait for his answer, it slices thinner than the last. “Damian?” I ask again, quieter this time.
He inhales through his nose and looks at me. Steady. Calm. Too calm. He exhales slowly and runs a hand over the back of his neck, like he’s trying to shake something off. “I heard the neighbors talking earlier,” he says, rubbing at his neck again, half-embarrassed. “Said there was a break-in a few doors down. One of the bars.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes. “I’m just being overly protective. I’m sorry.”
I blink. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”
He shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. “It was nothing, probably some kids. But I didn’t want to take chances.”
It sounds logical. Reasonable. The kind of answer that other people might be willing to accept. But it doesn’t feel right to me. I study him. The line of his jaw. The unblinking steadiness in his gaze. He looks like he’s telling the truth.
Still, something in my gut twists. I’ve played enough poker to know when someone’s bluffing. His tells are small—too controlled, too measured. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t shift. But that’s the point. He’s too still. Too careful. Fuck. He’s lying. I don’t know about what. But he is. And that terrifies me more than whatever sound pulled him off of me in the first place.
I nod anyway, because I don’t want to push.
He leans in to kiss my forehead, and I let him, but the gesture feels hollow. A knot tightens in my chest, sharp and cold. This man, the one I trust with my body, just lied to me. And if he’s lying about something as simple as a noise in the hallway, what else is he hiding?
Chapter Two
DAMIAN
The apartment smells like her. Sugar and vanilla, a trace of strawberries from her shampoo, and something soft and sweet that clings to every wall, every breath, every inch of me. I hear the water running in the bathroom, the slosh of her shifting in the tub, and the low, steady voice of a narrator drifting through the cracked door.
She’s listening to one of those audiobooks again. The dirty kind. The narrator’s voice is deep, velvety, each word soaked in heat. It rolls through the apartment like smoke."I want you to wrap your lips around it, sweetheart. Look up at me while you do. Show me how much you want it."
My jaw tenses. I grit my teeth, digging my fingers into the armrest of the couch to stop myself from bursting through the bathroom door and acting out the rest of the scene with her. Instead, I shift in my seat, painfully aware of the hard throb behind my zipper. She has no idea what she does to me. Or, hell, maybe she does. Maybe she likes torturing me with the things in those books and her wet, naked body just a few feet away.
There’s no time to jump in that tub with her. I glance at the front door. Bridger’s boots hit the stairs outside, each step louder than the last, a countdown ticking in my chest. He textedten minutes ago and said he needed to talk. Said it was serious shit. The kind of conversation that never ends well. The kind Marlowe doesn’t need to hear. Not right now.
She’s barely holding it together as it is. She’s working her perfect little ass off in that bakery, but she’s still hurting from what Vick and Taylor put her through. I’ve seen the way she jumps at sudden sounds, how her breathing hitches when she thinks I’m not looking. Her panic doesn’t come in a flash. It creeps in—slow, cold, and invisible—until it grips her by the throat. I’m not scared of much, butthat, that scares the hell out of me.
So no, I haven’t told her a damn thing. Not yet. Not until I know what we’re dealing with. She’s just stopped having nightmares about her father and Joel. She smiles in the mornings now, humming while she bakes, slipping into my lap like this peace we built might actually last. I’m not taking that from her. I want her happy. Carefree. Thinking about cake flavors and which shade of pink frosting makes her customers smile the most. Not shadows. Not blood.
A knock hits the door. Three short raps. I cross the room in three strides, yanking it open before Bridger can knock again. His face is tight, his jaw working like he’s already pissed at me. “Clay made contact with one of Joel’s guys. They met in the clubhouse this morning. Money changed hands. This doesn’t sound good. Did you tell her yet?” he mutters, stepping inside.
I shut the door behind him. “No.”
Bridger exhales, low and rough. “You’re serious?”
