Page 81 of Coveted By Cupid

Cupid opens his rich brown eyes, his stare intense as he says, “Loyalty means everything to me, whether it’s in this club or with you. Your love is sacred, and I will never step out on you.”

My jaded heart flutters, but I don’t let my hopefulness show on my face. “Not even if a club bunny is throwing herself at you?”

His expression sours, his nose turning up with disgust. “Especially not for club pussy. I should be offended that you’d question me.”

My mouth opens, ready to argue my reasoning. However, Cupid places a long finger against my lips to silence me, dropping it only when he feels certain I won’t interrupt him from saying his piece.

“But I’m not. Biker life is new to you. It’s only fair that you’d question me.”

Wow! I was not expecting him to be sensible, given how he’s steamrolled through everything else with us.

“You make it hard to stay mad at you when you’re being reasonable,” I mutter, running my fingers through his hair one more time before my palm rests against the soft leather of his cut over his heart where the steady rhythm of his heartbeat thumps against my hand.

“Good. As cute as you are mad, I prefer you happy.”

Happy? It’s wild to think I can be happy after the last few days I’ve had. Annoyed, worried, even pissed are all rational feelings I’ve experienced while being with this man. Yet, being here with this crazy-ass, possessive biker, I’m surprisingly content.

“I must admit, this little jealous side of you is hot. You’re making me hard as stone.”

I bristle at being called out. “I. Am. Not. Jealous.”

“You are,” he says, a smile tugging at his otherwise hard face. “And I love it. I want my woman to be as territorial over me as I am over her.”

Cupid wraps his arms around me, pulling me close enough his warm breath fans across my face. Pressed against him, I can smell the night’s activities on him: his musky, manly sweat which I oddly don’t mind, the mountain breeze in his hair, a pungent copper tang coming off his clothes, and heavy disinfectant wafting off his arms…

Hold up. Why does he smell like undiluted bleach?

The only reason anyone would need to use something that strong is to remove evidence.

Horror scenarios are brewing in my head when Cupid interrupts my morbid thoughts.

“My apologies for not checking in. You’re right. I would’ve called you had club business not been time-sensitive.”

Right. Hiding a body would be time-sensitive.

Troubled, I swallow the lump of dread in my throat before asking, “Are you really not going to tell me what you were doing?”

“It’s best not to. The less you know, the safer you are,” Cupid says lightly, like it’s some club rule he’s reciting from memory and completely unaware I’m internally freaking out.

Maybe it’s my nerves making me hyper-focused, but I home in on the mud splatter on his leather cut and t-shirt. My heart rate gradually increases as my eyes trail upward, following what I thought was mud from his neck to his face.

The marching band playing in my head since receiving my concussion goes quiet as realization dawns on me, making my stomach drop out of my ass.

It isn’t mud.

It’s blood, and I’m touching it.

Nope! I yank myself free of his embrace, stumbling back against the wall. My hands splay out in front of me, palms out like a protective shield, warning him to stay back.

Cupid clocks whatever horrified look has transformed my face. His brows pull together, as if I insulted him for pulling away. He steps forward…

“NO! Don’t come any closer,” I say with a squeak, my body trembling.

“Vanessa,” he says in a low drawl, almost as if he’s warning me not to create distance between us.

“It’s blood,” I blurt, panicking. “And it’s all over you. Whose blood is it?”

Cupid’s jaw ticks back and forth, like he’s weighing the pros and cons of revealing anything to me.