“I don’t give a fuck about what you do; I can look after myself and?—”
One second, I was across the table from him, the next, I had him out of his chair and pinned to the wall, the edge of my knife glinting under his chin, and his arm twisted behind him. Shock bled into fear, but I didn’t ease up.
“There is no version ofmethat isn’t built on blood and secrets, kid,” I said with deadly calm. “I might bepsycho, as you say, but I’m not the only bad guy in this world, remember that.”
His pulse kicked under the blade, and the moment stretched, raw and ugly, before I stepped back and let him go, the knife vanishing as if it had never been there. Bradley stumbled to the chair. He didn’t cry or say a word, only sat pale and silent, as if all the fight had drained out of him. Maybe I’d scared him enough. I wasn’t lying when I said I’d end what he was doing if I had to. I had no hesitation in warning off those three punks creeping into our world if it kept my family safe. Some things were simple like that—no guilt, no hesitation, just the clean logic of survival. I was Doc. Cold. Efficient. The man who made monsters scared so his family could sleep peacefully.
Marisol stared at me, and I waited for her to protest, to beg me for normality, but she was silent, and Molly carried on with her breakfast as if nothing had happened.
“You’re grounded,” I finished and pointed at Bradley.
He tipped his chin at me, defiant, but whatever he saw in my expression must’ve been enough to make him see I wasn’t messing about.
“Yes, sir,” he murmured.
And this was how I kept my family safe.
The only way I knew how.
This is a risk.
I told myself that three times as I headed back to Levi’s place. I told myself I just needed to see if he was keeping his mouth shut. Told myself I required information, nothing else.
I was good at lying to myself.
He might not even be there. I didn’t actually have a tracker on him like he thought, although I’d had the opportunity when I visited two nights ago. If he weren’t around, maybe I’d let myself in, have a dig inside his place—see what kind of man he was when he wasn’t armed and staring me down. Brutal truth? I wanted to see the parts of his life he didn’t show anyone. His bathroom cabinet or the stuff under his bed, and catalog everything he thought he’d hidden. Not because it was smart, but because I enjoyed it. I wantedhim.And wanting anything was the most dangerous instinct I had.
Fate dictated otherwise. Before I could cross the street, the lobby door swung open, and Levi stepped out, walking straight into my morning as if he’d been waiting for me. He wasn’t entirely put-together; his hair was damp from the shower, his jaw was tight, and his shirt sat crooked at the collar, as if he’d dressed too fast. For a second, I could imagine the marks I’d left on him when he’d hauled me closer and?—
I froze as he glanced around, searching, then saw me.
I didn’t move, didn’t hide. I moved into the shadow of the alley between his apartment building and the next, hands loose at my sides, and waited to see what came next. I turned to face him as he rounded the corner, his mouth set in a hard line.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“How did you know to look for me here?”
He pointed at a camera over the main door. “Really? That’s your question?” Levi’s jaw flexed. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“You didn’t tell me to stop. When I was in your place, you took it all, and you didn’t tell me to stop.”
He didn’t have a comeback for that. Not right away. His gaze dropped to my mouth, quick enough it might’ve been a twitch. I watched his breath catch. Heat rolled between us before either of us moved.
I stepped in first. He didn’t step back.
We didn’t kiss. We didn’t talk. We collided.
His back hit the brick wall behind him. My hand fisted in his shirt. His fingers curled into the waistband of my jeans, dragging me in until our hips slammed together. The sound he made—low, frustrated, hungry—hit straight down my spine.
I hooked my hand under his shirt, thumb brushing warm skin. He sucked in a breath and grabbed me harder, as though he was losing the argument with himself about pushing me away.
A word in Spanish slipped out before I could stop it. Filthy. Quiet. Meant for the space just under his jaw.
We moved against each other, rough, messy, too fast—more need than control, more instinct than thought. He let his forehead drop against mine for half a second, breathing hard. Too close. Too goddamn close.
That was the problem.
“I’m not coming in my pants like a teenager,” he cursed and shoved me away. I stepped back fast, and he stumbled forward a fraction, his eyes wide. He looked wrecked, pissed off, but ready to do it all again.
