He moves fast, so fast I can barely track the movement. One second he is standing across from me, leaning warily against his Eagle. The next he's gathered me into his arms, pressing my face hard against his chiseled torso. His familiar spicy scent envelops me. Is it any wonder that the scent of cloves has always relaxed me? The scent clings to his skin and even mixed with rain, still potent enough to make me go boneless.
For the first time since this nightmare started, I finally allow myself the indulgence of tears. The strangled sound of fear and sorrow I've been repressing escapes me. Kase hugs me still tighter.
"Shh. I've got you."
"I shouldn't be doing this," I mutter against his left pec. I'm not even sure he hears it over the increased tempo of the rain. "I shouldn't bring this sort of attention onto you. My dad would kill us both if he knew I'd come to you."
"Let him try."
I wriggle free from his grasp, pressing my hands flat against his abs, craning my neck to get a good look at his face. He's serious as a heart attack.
"No. You can't think like that, Kase. I don't want you or my father to get into it."
Unwillingly, my mind flits back to that day. The last day where everything was alright between us. If I squeeze my eyes shut, I can still smell the acrid bite of gunpowder in the air, still taste the pulse in the back of my throat. Can see the pool of red grow wider and wider, collecting on the cement floor of the warehouse.
I clutch the front of his shirt, soaked through with rain by now, and repeat myself. "No. You can't fight him. I won't allow it."
Because I know that my father will cheat. He'll do whatever he has to in order to see Kase Cruz dead. And I can't lose him again. Not that way.
Frustration lines his brow and he shakes his head in bewilderment. "What do you expect me to do then?"
I almost roll my eyes. Men. Did they think every problem could be solved with fists or the business end of a gun?
"Hide me. Do whatever you do with battered women around here."
Kase is silent for so long that I think I've actually offended him. Eventually, he expels a breath and a frustrated curse.
"I can't."
I jerk away from him as though burned. Hot, furious tears threaten to spill over again.
"Why the hell not? Because I'm a King? That's a nice double standard you have there."
He pushes a hand through his hair, rumpling it between his fingers. The rain makes it stick that way, and I flush, despite my anger. Peel the shirt away and he looks exactly as mussed as he used to when we were through fucking. My pussy clenches tight, an echo of the long-ago desire to have him thick and eager inside of me.
"No. It's not because you're a King. It's because you're Brooklyn Gardel. And because the person I have to go through is Roman Cruz. Sick as it is, I don't think he's going to help you. So going through the usual channels isn't an option."
"So you can't help me?"
"I didn't say that. I'm not letting you get hurt, Brooklyn."
He can't promise that. Not truthfully, anyway. Because he's as much a danger to me as anyone else. He may not hold the immediate threat of physical harm, but it might be even more devastating. Because I'm damn close to falling into those smoldering eyes again, and this time I'm not sure I'll survive the fallout if he leaves me alone.
"So, what now?"
"First we pay Drew to hold your bike for a while. I'd hate to see your baby left in pieces because we abandoned it here."
I bristle. "Why can't I keep my bike?"
I like the Street 500. It had been a gift from my father, a conciliatory gesture when yet another of my relationships failed. He broke the man's legs for the insult. And people ask why I date little.
Kase lifts an incredulous brow at me, as though I'm missing the glaringly obvious. I cross my arms stubbornly over my chest, unwilling to concede any ground. This whole thing makes me feel like a girl again, gawky and filled with naive confidence that things will all work out in the end. I know better now. I will not let him treat me like a child.
Kase finally sighs. "Someone is out there looking for you. Don't think that coming across the line is going to stop them. Anyone with connections to your father could buy a cop. They'll be looking for a blue Street 500 with plates that match yours. It'll take a while to get you another set of fakes and redo the paint job, so it's best you just leave it here."
My cheeks burn with embarrassment, and I'm grateful for the slide of rain down my face for once in my life. Of course he has a point. And if this business wasn't scaring me so badly, I might have thought it through. I'm glad that at least one of us is being level-headed.
"Right," I mutter. "Sorry."
