“Your kind is not welcome in South Bay,” Decker says. “Get the fuck out of my town, tonight, or the next time I got my piecein your face, there’ll be a lot less talking and a whole lot more of your brains splattered on the sidewalk.” He grips Keegan’s collar and leans closer, their faces inches apart. “Tell me you understand.”
Throat bobbing, Keegan nods.
Decker releases him. “Tell your club their business with Grace is done.” He takes a long, deep breath and then says, “Now leave, or I might change my mind about blowing your fucking head off.”
Keegan springs to his feet and stumbles around the van. Without looking back, he climbs into the driver’s seat and peels out of his parking spot.
Decker takes another one of those breaths, and then, without saying a word, turns on his heel and walks away.
“Hey, wait a minute.” I take off after him at a jog.
He continues on down the road, ignoring me as we pass parked cars, the odd motorcycle, a dim streetlight.
“Decker.”
“Don’t follow me,” he barks out. Another big breath as he quickens his steps.
With a huff, I grab his arm and twist him to face me. “Stop for a second.”
“I can’t be around you right now.”
“Why?” I ask, my heart lodging itself in my throat.
Eyes dark, jaw set, fists clenched. His temper is poking its way to the surface, his anger threatening to bubble over. A man about to lose control. I know all about men like that.
I drift to one side, putting a little distance between us, tightening my hold on my knife.
Decker homes in on the blade. “I’m not gonna hurt you, Grace.”
Maybe I don’t believe him, and maybe that doubt is written on my face, because he sighs, his shoulders caving.
“I’m not my father. I’m not… I’m nothing like the piece of shit who raised you. I may not be a good man, but I willneverhurt you. Not like that. I just need to…” He releases a sharp exhale. “You should go.”
“Would you have done it? Would you have…” Would he have finished the job? Taken a life? Would he have killed someone for me?
He’s quiet for a beat, then says, “Yes.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask, words reedy as I holster my knife.
He scrubs his hand down his face. “No fucking idea. I saw a man with his hands on you, and I just felt like killing him. Probably best we don’t read into it.”
I take a step closer, and Decker brushes his fingers over my jaw, drawing attention to a dull throb starting at the edge of my mouth courtesy of the back of Keegan’s hand. He touches my lips, lingering for a moment. When he pulls away, his skin comes back red.
“Oh.” I wipe my hand over my mouth. Blood. Shit.
He angles up my chin and examines my face, touch tender, eyes soft. Like that first night, when I was in that cell and he was just trying to do the right thing. His hand finds its way to my throat, and I crane my neck back so I can get a better look at the perfect angles of his face—furrowed brows, his penetrating dark eyes. I feather my fingers over his jawline, the roughness of the scruff he’s let grow over his chin and cheeks scratching at my skin.
Slowly, I push up on my toes and press my lips to his.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
He slides an arm around my waist, his warm hand finding the small of my back, and tugs me closer. Then he takes my mouth hard into his. Another one of those dominating,punishing, demanding kisses, where there’s teeth and biting and forcefulness. All-consuming. Hands wandering, bruising.
I kiss back with the same ferocity, the same need.
Need isn’t the word for it.
With a groan, he breaks the connection, backing up, his chest bouncing, breath ragged, irises full of fire and heat and need.
