“We’re handling it.”
“If you want me to relax and rest, be straight with me.”
“Kinsley,” he takes my shoulders and backs me into the wall. “If it gets you to do as you’re told, then yes, they’re going to die, and I will be there when they do. And before you ask,” he pushes my chin up, closing my mouth before I can argue. “No, you cannot be there. You might think you can handle it, but you can’t. The life I lead,” he presses up closer to me. “Isn’t something I want for you.”
“Whatdoyou want for me?” I throw back.
His expression is torn, the fire burning in his eyes is hard to read, but the longer we stare, the more it softens to concern. I’m not sure I needthatRebel now, but when he strokes my jaw and pushes his hand into the back of my hair, my eyes drift shut, and my forehead falls on his chest.
Tiredness sweeps over me, and my arms drop to my sides. Without a word, Rebel picks me up and carries me upstairs. The light from the hallway and the stars illuminate the room.
I’m not so far gone I can’t get my clothes off, but he helps, respectful and mumbling about whether to feed me before I sleep. It’s decided for him when I snuggle down into the comfortable mattress. Inhaling his familiar scent on the pillow, I curl into a ball.
The last thing I remember is him pulling up the covers and gently kissing my forehead.
At some point in the night, I thought he got into bed and lay close behind me, but when I wake to bright sunlight, I’m alone and the other side of the bed is cold.
There is a towel on the chair beside the bed for me. The bathroom is another surprise with the glass enclosure and black tiles. Why do I have this idea of bikers living in shit holes?
The shower is perfect and I smell like Rebel when I step out to dry myself. A knock at the door startles me, but I call out for him to come in once the towel is wrapped around me.
Rebel is wearing dark sweatpants and a tight white T-shirt, he’s holding a mug of coffee, the scent of which makes me weak at the knees.
Or maybe that is just him, because I can’t stop the way my eyes roam up and down his body.
“Keep looking at me like that and I’ll feed you something other than eggs and bacon.”
“I don’t think you would want me anywhere near you with how hungry I am.”
“Don’t be so sure.” He shifts off the doorframe and hands me the coffee. “I set something out for you to wear, come down when you’re ready.”
“Will we talk? Reality, not you telling me it’s not my business. My cousin makes it my business.”
He gives a terse nod, which surprises me, but I don’t show it. Once I’m dressed in a pair of his shorts, I have to roll at the waist to keep from falling down, and a black T-shirt, I check my reflection to see how bad it is.
It’s not my tired eyes or still exhausted features that catch my eye. It’s the logo over my breast. The Blackhawk Disciples logo. A genuine smile ghosts my lips before I grab the coffee and head downstairs.
Rebel is in the kitchen putting out two plates of food.
“Cute.”
His head lifts, and he eyes the shirt, his lip twitching. “The shirt, or me making you breakfast.”
“There is nothing cute about you. I should tear this thing in half.”
“Be my guest.” His gaze drifts lower.
I don’t have any clean underwear here, and my pebbled nipples poking through the fabric drive that point home.
He sets the plates on the dining table. Our relationship is different now. We’ve gone from him holding me at gunpoint to taking care of me after what happened to Colt.
The eggs suddenly look a little less appetizing, even though my stomach is growling.
“Eat your food. You’re no good to him if you pass out.”
“Who are you and what have you done with Rebel?”
He takes a moment before he speaks, as if he is figuring something out. My breath catches, not sure what is about to come out of his mouth.
