Page 80 of Coveted By Cupid

We’re going to have to agree to disagree. Whatever Cupid is doing, I have a visceral feeling it is tied to me, and I want to know what it is.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

VANESSA

Back in Cupid’s apartment, I lean against the back of the tan leather couch, arms folded across my chest, my eyes transfixed on the butterfly canvas hanging on the wall like it holds all the answers. After seeing Cupid without a shirt again yesterday in the shower, I can say with certainty that the butterfly on the canvas matches the butterfly inked on his chest.

He calls me Butterfly in private, and Psyche or Vanessa publicly. What’s the connection?

Of all the guys I’ve been involved with, none of them invoked feelings inside of me the way Cupid does. His possessiveness startles me, tearing down my walls and exposing my vulnerability to his charm. I’m honest enough to admit I relish his attention, falling deeper for his all-consuming devotion.

The mystery around Cupid and his dangerous life was exciting for a moment until I woke up in his bed with him insisting I’m his ole lady. Now, I want answers, heavy on the details. If I’m to accept being with the president of the Loveland Royal Bastards MC, I need to trust him.

Tears sting at the back of my eyes. Refusing to break down, I blink them away.

I want to believe he’ll remain faithful. I want it so damn bad.

It frustrates me to hope maybe this time will be different, that Cupid is not like the rest of the male population and will do right by me. And then he disappears for half a day, and all my insecurities regarding men being unfaithful pigs return with a vengeance.

Absorbed in my thoughts, I don’t hear Cupid’s return until he’s feet away from me. “Butterfly? How’s your head? Are you feeling better today?”

“My head?” I scoff, giving him the cold shoulder and refusing to look at him. “My head is just fine. My tolerance for your bullshit is not.”

I can almost hear the cocky smile in his voice as he says, “You must be feeling better—your attitude is back in full force.”

Not bothering to suppress my eye roll, I turn to give him a piece of my mind. “You’ve got a lot of nerve disappearing for hours on end without checking in with proof of life at least once⁠—”

The rest of my rant dies on my tongue when I see the state he’s in. “Jesus Christ! What happened?”

My wayward biker stands in front of me, disheveled from the night’s activities. His clothes are covered in what I assume is dried mud and are severely rumpled and torn in some places, as if he had been in a scuffle. Although his hair is normally unruly, it’s more than usual, sticking out in all directions. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, causing his clothes to cling to his muscles with perspiration. The bags under his eyes tell me he’s exhausted. Yet his gaze remains steady, his head cocked as he studies me—always studying me. The mud splatters stop midway up his forearms, and his hands look red, almost like he has scrubbed them raw.

This is not the look of a man who was out whoring around all hours of the night—I know that look well from past partners. This is the look of a man who has been working hard, getting his hands dirty.

What were you doing, Cupid?

Before my brain can activate an acute stress response in me, I take a tentative step toward him. My hand reaches out to brush through his unmanaged hair, combing it into something less wild. “Are you okay?”

A deep, content groan rumbles in Cupid’s chest when my fingers run through his short hair, skimming over his scalp. His eyes shutter, getting lost in my touch.

“Better now that my woman is taking care of me and not biting my head off. I’ve missed your hands on me the last twelve hours.”

“Yeah, well, I’m still pissed you didn’t check in,” I grumble, fretting over him. Although I’m highly irritated with him, the state of him makes me pause from going full nuclear on his ass.

“If this is you pissed, I’ll take it.” He smirks before grimacing in pain. He rolls his shoulders, trying to relax his labored muscles.

Lord, he looks like he’s ready to collapse from exhaustion.

Concern floods me, worried he may hurt from whatever happened last night.

Before I can suggest moving our crucial confrontation to the couch, he says. “Talk to me, Butterfly. Tell me what’s on your mind. I know you have a lot to get off your chest. Your anger radiates off of you like static cling against my skin.”

“You’re tired. We should sit⁠—”

He grips me by my hips, keeping me in place and cutting me off. “Woman, I’m fine. Aside from me not calling, why are you pissed?”

A flare of annoyance runs through me hearing his bossy attitude. If he wants to have this conversation standing on his tired feet, fine by me.

“You have no idea how uneasy I felt with you gone all night. In my experience, guys who are out at those late hours are with someone else.”