I'm in the bedroom, reading through reports I should have dealt with hours ago, when the door opens and she slips inside. She's wearing one of my shirts, nothing else, and the sight of her knocks the breath right out of my lungs.
"I talked to my mom," she says, climbing onto the bed. "She cried. She apologized. She said she should have known, should have seen something was wrong." Sparrow settles into my lap, straddling me, her hands flat on my chest. "She asked about the man who called her. I told her you're good to me."
"Am I?"
"The best." She kisses me, soft at first, then deeper. "I want to be good to you too."
Before I can respond, she pushes me back onto the pillows. Her hands find the hem of my shirt and pull it over my head. Her mouth follows, tracing the tattoos on my chest with lips and tongue.
"Sparrow—"
"Shh." She looks up at me with those bright blue eyes. "Let me."
I let her.
She takes her time exploring my body, learning what makes me groan, what makes my hands fist in the sheets. When she takes me in her mouth, I nearly come off the bed. She's tentative at first, testing, but she finds her confidence fast. Her tongue swirls, her hand strokes, and I'm fighting for control I don't usually have to fight for.
"Enough." My voice comes out rough, wrecked. I pull her up, flip her beneath me, and strip the shirt off her in one motion. "My turn."
I worship her the way she deserves. Every inch. Every curve. Every soft gasp and broken moan. When I finally sink into her, she arches up to meet me, nails raking down my back.
This time is different from the first. Less careful. More desperate. We've crossed a threshold somewhere in the past twenty-four hours, and there's no going back. She's mine in every way that matters, and I'm hers, and the truth of that burns through me with every thrust.
She comes with my name on her lips, and I follow right after, burying my face in her neck as the world whites out.
After, lying tangled in the rumpled sheets with her warm body pressed against mine, she traces lazy, aimless patterns on my chest with her fingertips.
"Jett?"
"Mm?"
"I love you."
I go completely still, every muscle tensing. The words hang in the air between us, heavy and terrifying and more right than anything I've ever heard in my entire life.
"I don't know if I know how to love," I admit, the words dragging up from somewhere deep inside. The honesty hurts, scraping against old wounds and buried scars I thought had healed over years ago. "I know how to protect. How to possess. How to fight for what's mine. But love..."
She props herself up on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression so tender, so full of understanding it makes my chest physically ache.
"That's love, Jett. Just dressed up in leather and wrapped in different words."
I pull her close, holding her tight against me like I can press her into my bones. I want to say it back. God, I want to. The words are right there, crowding my throat, pushing at my teeth. But something holds them back—some old fear, some deep-rooted damage I haven't managed to shake yet.
She doesn't push. She doesn't demand. She just curls into me, fitting perfectly against my side, her head resting on my chest, her breathing gradually evening out as she drifts toward sleep.
I lie awake for a long time afterward, watching her peaceful face in the dim light, wondering how the hell I got so lucky to have her here.
And planning, step by step, exactly what I'm going to do to Garrett Ashworth when I finally get my hands on him.
The next morning, one of Ashworth's PIs turns up dead. Car accident on the highway. Seemingly random. Nothing to connect it to us. But I know better. This is Ashworth sending a message. He's willing to clean house to protect himself. He's willing to burn everything down.
The war has begun.
I look at Sparrow across the breakfast table, laughing at something Tessa said, her whole face lit up with joy.
I'll burn down the world before I let him touch her again.
7
