Declan used to be our main enforcer, and now he's moved into position as head of security because he's fucking good at it. Nothing slips by him.
But Bianca’s my woman, my obsession, and I won't sleep until Marcus Crowning is buried.
I stand and move to the bed, checking the window locks for the third fucking time tonight, then check the lock on the bathroom window and the balcony doors.
“Ashland.” Her voice is sleepy and soft, husky. I turn to find her watching me, her big eyesbarely open.
“Go back to sleep, love,” I tell her. “Just checking things.”
“Again.” She pushes herself up on one elbow. “You checked an hour ago.”
“Aye, and I'll check again in another hour.”
I move back to the chair, but her hand shoots out, catching my wrist. “Bed, Ashland.”
“I'm fine.”
“You're not fine if you don't sleep.” She tugs gently. “Please. I can't even sleep when you're prowling around like a caged animal.”
I hesitate. Every instinct in me screams to stay alert, stay vigilant, but exhaustion pulls at my bones, and the plea in her eyes is impossible to resist.
“Declan knows what he's doing,” she says. “You know he does.”
Over the past few days, Declan's gone over security with her, every single detail. Making sure she knows the protocols, the safe rooms, and the escape routes.
“Alright.” I slide into bed beside her.
She immediately curls into me, her head on my chest, her hand over my heart, and her breathing begins to slow.
“Ah,” she whispers. “Better now.”
I wrap my arm around her, holding her close, and her warmth seeps into me. Her breathing evens out, but I still don't sleep. I lie there in the dark, listening to every creakof the house, to the whisper of the wind outside, protecting her. Always protecting her.
Morning comes too soon.
I wake to sunlight streaming through the curtains and Bianca's fingers tracing the scar that runs along my ribs.
“You're staring,” I rumble, not opening my eyes.
“You have so many,” she says softly. “It makes me sad to think about how you got them.”
I don't respond. Sometimes it makes me sad too.
Her finger moves to another scar, this one across my shoulder. “This one looks old.”
“It is. I was fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” she says, her voice catching. “You were just a child. Just a lad.”
“I was a McCarthy,” I say, opening one eye to find her propped up on an elbow, studying me with that intense gaze that goes right through me. “We're not children for very long, love.”
Her top has slid off her shoulder, showing me bare, creamy skin. I pull it back, brushing my thumb over the exposed flesh.
Her fingers trace lower, finding the puckered scar above my hip. “This one?”
“Knife fight. Twenty-two.”
“This?” She touches my knuckles, where the scars are thick and white.
