I don’t have to wonder for long.
She dives behind the sofa and pops back up, holding a damn rifle.
“The fuck?”I’ve worked here for six months and didn’t know that was there.“How did you find that?”
“I lived with the son of a bitch half my life.”Her breath comes hard and fast, her entire body coiled.“I know where he keeps his weapons.”
“I’m sorry.Who?”
“Me.”A man steps out from the back room.
I don’t know him.But I know of him.
Jag Rath.
The mysterious owner of the shop.The man I’ve only heard about in passing, a shadow daddy wrapped in urban legend.
He stands in the doorway, staring down the barrel of a rifle held by the princess in the wedding gown.
The guy is ridiculously good-looking in a cruel, rugged way.Makes me wonder if he’s always been jaded or if life whittled him into this hard, unbreakable marble.
His light brown hair is thick, textured, and perfectly unkempt.Stubble frames a strong jaw.And his jeans… Hell, his denim fits him just right.He’s broad, imposing, late thirties or early forties, and carries the aura of a man who has seen too much.
His gaze slides between the gun and the woman holding it.No fear.No surprise.
“Dove.”His timbre is deep and growly.Dangerous.
So that’s her name.
Dove.
It fits.
She doesn’t lower the gun.If anything, her grip tightens.
“I’ll kill you.”Breath shudders out of her, and her voice cuts like a blade.
She means it.Every syllable drips with conviction and something deeper than anger.
Betrayal.
Heartbreak.
Reminds me of Frankie the day she watched the video of her husband—my father—banging another woman.
I step forward before my brain catches up with my body.
“This is awkward.”I lean against the wall, arms crossed.“I usually prefer a little foreplay before the bleeding starts.”
She angles her head just enough for me to see the fury blazing in those syrupy, honey-colored eyes.But I also see the hurt buried beneath it.And now I really want to know what the hell is going on.
“You must be Wolfson.”Jag gives me a slow, violating perusal.
“Shut up, you fuck.”She shuffles closer to him.“Look at me!”
“It’s always about you, isn’t it?”he drawls.“Poor little Dove.”
“I loved him!”she shouts, her voice breaking.Then, softer, quieter, almost to herself, “I loved him.Why did you have to fuck him?”
