4
MELODIE
The bathroom is small, smelling of pine cleaner and Rogue’s heavy, masculine scent. He sits me down on the closed lid of the toilet, his movements careful, almost clinical, as he reaches for the first-aid kit under the sink. I should feel exposed, but looking at the set of his jaw and the focused intensity in his eyes, all I feel is cared for.
“I’m going to lift the sweater, Mel,” he says, his voice dropping to that low rumble that makes my skin tingle. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
I nod, clutching the edge of the seat. He hooks his large fingers under the hem of the soft knit and slides it up. I hiss as the fabric pulls at the dried blood on my side. He stops instantly, his knuckles brushing against my ribs. The contact is electric. I’ve been touched roughly for so long that his hesitation, his genuine concern for my pain, is more overwhelming than the injury itself.
“Easy, angel. I’ve got you.”
He uses a warm cloth to dab at the area, cleaning away the mess left by the corset’s cruel edges. I watch him, fascinated by the contrast of his massive, tattooed hands performing such delicate work. He looks like he could crush a man's skull withoutblinking, yet he’s treating me like I’m made of the same fragile paper I used for my flowers.
“Why are you doing this?” I whisper.
He pauses, the damp cloth hovering over a particularly nasty bruise. He looks up, his dark eyes locking onto mine with a fierce sincerity. “Because nobody should have ever laid a hand on you unless it was to worship you, Melodie. And because I’m never letting anyone hurt you again. Not while I’m drawing breath.”
The all-consuming, instant love Mika and Athena talked about this afternoon, the stories of their hardened bikers claiming them instantly… It all sounded like a fairy tale. A lie told to keep me from giving up hope. But looking at Rogue, I realize it wasn't a lie. It’s a territorial, bone-deep possession. And for the first time in my life, I want to be claimed.
“Rogue,” I whisper, tilting my head up to look at him.
“Was that too much? Fuck, I know I’m coming off as an obsessed–”
“Kiss me.”
His eyes widen as a kaleidoscope of emotions swirl within. Shock gives way to a tender realization, and Rogue cups my cheek, brushing his thumb across my cheekbone. “Are you sure, precious?”
I nod and lean forward, putting myself out there in a way I never have before. Rogue doesn’t let me doubt myself for a single second. His lips meet mine in an achingly tender touch, taking a moment to breathe me in before kissing me with more intention.
My lips part beneath his, and I welcome the heat of his tongue rubbing against mine. What starts out as soft exploration quickly turns into something more urgent. I slide my hands up his chest and tangle my fingers in his hair, needing more of his flavor and desperate touches.
Rogue combs his hand through my hair, pulling it to one side so he has better access to my neck. I let out a quiet moan whenhis lips glide along my sensitive flesh, followed by a slight sting when he nips a spot below my ear.
“So damn soft and sweet,” he murmurs, his breath tickling my skin. “Can’t wait for more of that, angel. But first, let me finish cleaning you up.”
I sigh and give him a little pout, which Rogue kisses away. How can he be devastatingly sexy, protective, and yet so gentle? He’s everything I could ever want, but I’m having a hard time believing this can really be my reality.
After changing the bandage, he carries me back to the kitchen, refusing to let my feet touch the cold floor. He sets me on the counter, standing between my knees as he begins to move around the kitchen with a sudden burst of restless energy.
"You need to eat," he says, though he's mostly talking to the fridge. "Mika left some soup, but I can make you something better. Steak? Eggs? I’m not much of a chef, but I can grill anything."
I watch him, a small smile tugging at my lips. He’s hovering, his protective instincts dialed up to an eleven. "The soup is fine, Rogue. Really."
He stops, turning back to me. He reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear. His thumb lingers on my cheekbone. "I feel like I'm losing my mind," he admits, his voice rough. "I've spent my whole life looking for a fight, looking for a reason to burn things down. And then I find you, and suddenly the only thing that matters is making sure you're fed and warm."
"Is that a bad thing?" I ask softly.
"No," he growls, leaning in until our foreheads touch. "It's the only thing that's ever made sense."
The moment is broken by a low vibration from the counter. Rogue's phone. He glances at it, and I see his expression shift. The tenderness retreats behind a mask of cold, hard steel.
"Is it the club?" I ask, my stomach doing a nervous flip.
"It's Shadow," he says, picking up the phone but keeping his eyes on me. "They found a lead on the guy who was holding your contract. A man named Vance."
The name hits me like a physical blow. Vance. The man with the cold eyes and the silver cane.
Rogue sees the color drain from my face. He drops the phone and grabs my shoulders. "Melodie? What is it? You know him?"
