She mentioned a little about him when she first called to warn me.
Yeah, I’d say Lacey has the bad-boy rose-colored glasses on.
Not that I can judge her.
Been there, done that.
“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” she says. “If you’re not comfortable there, you could come stay with us—” A smacking sound fills the air, and Lacey squeaks.
“Sorry, baby girl,” a male voice says. “We’re enjoying our bonding honeymoon phase. I’m not trying to have any guests roaming around the house that would keep us from fucking in the kitchen.”
“Callum!” Lacey squeaks, sounding muffled. “Sorry about that, Charlotte. Don’t listen to him. If you feel unsafe, we’re more than happy to have you.”
Little does she know, I’m probably the cause of why she’s in danger in the first place.
“I’m good here for now, but thank you.”
I pull the door closed behind me, psyching myself up to ask someone where I’ll find my SUV.
“Charlotte.” The deep, growly voice belongs to Malachy.
My head whips in the direction of the sound, and the massive alpha swaggers closer with a level of grace that makes no sense at his size.
If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he’d fit in just fine at an MC. His brown beard is thick and curly and long as hell. The brown hair on the top of his head is straight and so long that it flops over his forehead and into his eyes.
He’s clad in a pair of light-wash jeans and boots, but no shirt. Mandala tattoos cover both shoulders in a snowflake pattern, while some type of winged beast takes up most of his chest.
That might be a chimera.
His left hand is another mandala that turns to geometric shapes and patterns that run up his forearm. He has a few others strewn across his lower stomach, but they disappear into the waistband of his jeans, making it impossible to tell what they are.
“Hey,” I say, swallowing thickly. “You, uh, forgot your shirt.”
Wow.
That was helpful.
He chuckles.
“Someone bumped the heat up, likely so you and Lukas wouldn’t be cold, but I run hot. I pulled it off because I was sweating. I’m more worried about you. What’s wrong?” His massive hand moves to cup my cheek.
His electric scent hits my nose, and he wasn’t lying about being sweaty. His smell is everywhere—chaotic and stormy and delicious.
“I shouldn’t go out without makeup, it’s a known fact. I scare people when I do.” I laugh weakly, trying to force a lightness that I don’t feel.
“Don’t do that.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek. “You don’t need to make jokes to deflect from your feelings. If I ask, I expect the truth.” That light Irish accent of his rolls through his words.
My eyes ache, and I clench them shut to hopefully force away the tears.
I’m never this emotional.
I pride myself on being tough enough to get through any crisis. There’s always time to break down when you’re on the other side, picking up the pieces.
The long-term exhaustion must be getting to me.
“Talk to me, little one. I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.” He keeps his voice low and soothing, and every cell in my body aches to melt into him.
So I do.
