At the mention of Frankie, Monty leans back against the counter, arms folded and jaw clenched.Leo’s eyes blaze with the flesh-mauling thoughts of a mountain troll, and Kody’s dark stare drills into Jag, aiming to crush him with a single glance.
They can’t hide Frankie’s existence or their baby growing inside her.They sure as hell can’t hide what they would do if someone touched what’s theirs.It wouldn’t be justice.It would be annihilation.
As the shop bleeds hostility, Jag Rath stands at the center, shoulders back, hands relaxed at his sides as if he isn’t the target of their violent thoughts.His smirk mocks us all.
At least the weapons have been sheathed.
“You’re going to ink the man who wants you dead?”Monty growls.“Think through this, Son.”
“Relax.He’s letting me put needles in his skin.Not the other way around.If he twitches, I’ll just bleed him a little faster.”
They know I can handle myself.I don’t need a gun or a blade.I am the weapon.My reflexes, instincts, and total lack of fucks to give… No civilized man can match that.
I wasn’t made here.Hoss built me.I’m apex by design.Teeth, fists, and ferocity are my factory settings.Same as my brothers.
Which is why Monty gives a tight nod and steps into Jag’s space like he owns the man’s air.“Hand over your weapons.”
Jag flashes his teeth, bristling with ice and arrogance, but he does it.So do I.Not that it matters.There are enough guns stashed in this place to start a small war.
But that’s not the point.
Monty is laying down the rules.If this gets ugly, it stays personal.No steel.No bullets.Just skin, bone, and pain.Because Monty knows, if it comes down to bare hands, I’m walking out.Jag is not.
Even if Jag’s wrist wasn’t as swollen and black as roadkill, I’d still put him down.But damn.Just looking at the busted thing makes my knuckles ache in sympathy.He should really get it checked out.
Or not.I’m not his babysitter.Let it rot.
Monty leaves first.Leo and Kody follow, casting dark looks at Jag.When the door shuts, I exhale slowly and size up my opponent.
Alone, he’s more menacing.All coiled muscle and primal stillness.Everything about him radiates sex.It pisses me off that I feel it.
Lucky for me, I have a thing for women.
Women who dye their hair blue and smell like motor oil.
“Get comfortable.”I gesture at the tattoo chair.“Do you know what you want?”
“A leg sleeve.”
I go still.“That’s…”
“Sixty hours of work.Longer if the design is complex.”He cocks his head.“I expect complex.”
“Riiiight.But when you said a tattoo…”
“You assumed it would be a single session.That’syourproblem.”He reaches for his belt with his good hand, fingers deftly working the buckle.“Start with a thigh piece.”
“Intimate.”I lean against my workbench, watching him undress without modesty.
“Thought you were a professional.”He steps out of his jeans, revealing sculpted thighs dusted with hair.
“I am.Strippers are professional, too.And while you’re working them, they’re working you.Are you trying to work me, Rath?”
“Maybe you’re reading too much into it.”He removes his shirt because…Why?
“And you’re saying nothing while revealing everything.”
Jesus in a crop top, his physique is imposing.Broad shoulders, lean waist, rippling muscles, all that shit.Why am I staring?It’s just aesthetics.Like admiring a weapon.Doesn’t mean I want to fuck the knife.
