I crack one eye open and immediately regret it. Sunlight streams through the window, way too bright, way too cheerful for how I feel right now. My mouth tastes like I licked an ashtray, and my body aches in places I forgot could ache.
Worth it, though.
Memories from last night flood back in fragments. The bar, sitting on Ash’s lap, Titan throwing me over his shoulder. The ride to the cabin, all three of them looking at me like they’d been denied me for too long.
Everything that happened after.
Heat floods my face despite the pounding headache. I actually did that. Got drunk and propositioned three men at once, then followed through like some kind of?—
A massive arm tightens around my waist, pulling me back against a wall of solid muscle.
“Hey, you up?” Titan mumbles against my hair.
I twist in his grip to look at him. He’s sprawled across most of the king-size bed, taking up space like it’s his job. His dark hairsticks up in every direction, stubble shadowing his jaw, eyes still closed. He looks younger when he sleeps, less like the enforcer who breaks bones for a living.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He pulls me closer, burying his face in my neck. “Stay.”
“I need coffee.”
“Coffee can wait.”
“My head is killing me.”
“That’s what happens when you drink half the bar.” His hand splays across my stomach, thumb tracing lazy circles.
“Where’s Ash and Ghost?” I ask.
“Gone, I guess.” He finally opens his eyes, dark and warm as they focus on me. “Probably handling club shit. You know how Ash gets.”
Yeah, I do. Duty before everything else. The club always comes first.
Unlike the situation I’m in, where I’m the thing being sacrificed for the club.
The thought sours my mood. Six more days until I become Mrs. Marcus Stone and lose everything that makes me who I am.
“Hey.” Titan’s hand cups my face, thumb brushing my cheek. “Where’d you go just now?”
“Nowhere. Just thinking.”
“About?”
“Nothing important.”
His expression shifts. He knows I’m lying, but doesn’t push. Instead, he rolls onto his back and stretches, arms above his head, showing off muscles that make my mouth go dry despite the hangover.
“Shower,” he announces. “Then food. Sound good?”
“Sounds perfect.”
He swings out of bed, and I get a full view of him naked in the morning light. Six-foot-six of pure muscle and ink, tattoos covering his chest and arms in intricate designs. I’ve seen him shirtless countless times at the clubhouse, but this is different.
It feels like I’m allowed to look now.
He catches me staring and grins. “Like what you see, princess?”
“Don’t call me that.”
