Things haven’t changed since that night at her place.
Why the hell did I think they would? I knew damn well I’d never resist her.
After leaving her place, I went straight to the House of Saints with every intention of fucking her out of my system. Found a townie who ticked all the necessary boxes: attractive, soft smile, smelled good, eyes full of invitation. My charm routine was half-assed at best, words sliding from my mouth on autopilot while half my brain stayed tangled up in Marigold’s scent, Marigold’s laugh, Marigold’s goddamn everything.
Not that it mattered to the woman across from me. They never care about the effort. They see the kutte, the patch, and me, and decide they’ve scored a story to tell in the morning.
I told myself the spark would ignite once she was naked beneath me. But she excused herself to the restroom, and when she returned, she brushed me off like I was invisible and made a quick escape.
She didn’t say why. Didn’t look back. She was just gone, leaving me stranded in that booth with questions swirling. That doesn’t happen. Ever.
I tilt my head, eyes searching Marigold as if her skin might hold the answer. Suspicion throbs slow and steady behind my eyes.
Was she there? Did she have a hand in the woman fleeing the bar like she’d caught fire?
No, that’s impossible. Marigold doesn’t drive, and there’s no damn way she could have gotten there fast enough to interfere. But there is someone else who could have.
My little shadow.
They haunt my every step, always watching, lingering just out of sight like a damn ghost with an obsession. Since they’ve already staked their claim, I wouldn’t be surprised if they chased off anyone foolish enough to get near.
The thought sends a dark, possessive satisfaction curling deep in my gut.
I move to step toward Marigold, but Blackjack blocks my way. He stands there, stone-faced and unreadable, holding a small black cat plushie in one huge hand. A ribbon circles its neck, a folded note tucked beneath the bow.
My stomach knots, heat blooming sharp and electric through me.
“Awe,” I drawl, forcing a smirk that feels a little too tight. “You got yourself a secret admirer, brother?”
Blackjack’s eyes stay on mine, flat and knowing. “Not mine.”
He offers the plushie, and every conversation in the common room falters, then falls silent. The hush slams into my ears, heavy as water.
My laugh comes out rougher than I intended as I take the toy. Receiving something like this in front of my brothers should piss me off.Should. Instead, a slow, dangerous warmth spreads through my chest.
The plushie is absurdly soft, with fur so smooth it's expertly crafted. It gazes up at me with oversized sapphire eyes, their brightness so uncanny it steals my breath.
My gaze snaps straight to Marigold.
Those eyes…
Jesus fuck. My stomach flips, muscles tensing.
They look like hers.
She stays propped against the wall, lost in Birdie’s words, while I try to hide the chaos building inside me just a few feet away.
Muted conversations roar in my ears as I unfold the note. The handwriting is delicate, almost innocent, crowned with a tiny heart as if this is sweet, not deeply deranged.
Just something cute to keep you warm at night until I can join you.
My body betrays me before my brain reacts. A sharp, involuntary twitch low in my groin and heat dragging tight through my abdomen.
Shit.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Why do I want this?
My grip tightens around the note, paper crinkling between my fingers.
