Page 68 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

“It’s alright, Luna,” I mutter, dragging in deep breaths to calm the storm raging in my chest. But it spikes again the second I catch sight of myself in the mirror.

Oh, for the love of—

My nipples are tight and furled, two shameless peaks straining against the thin, nearly translucent cami. The piercings only make them more obvious.

Perfect. Justperfect.One more thing for him to gloat about.

And as for modesty? A narrow strip of a towel! My brain scrambles to calculate the lesser evil and pick between covering my chest or my pussy. With a resigned sigh, I wrap the towel around my waist like a makeshift sarong.

Not that it matters now. The horse has not only bolted, the fucking barn is burned down.

When I step back into the room, his eyes are already waiting—dark and scorching. They travel over me with deliberate slowness; a physical caress that sets every nerve ending on fire.

When his gaze locks onto my breasts, I swear it feels like a blowtorch through the fabric. To my horror, my nipples grow even harder and start to ache despite my silent commands to behave.

Say something, Luna. Something snarky about his obvious staring. A casual comment about the weather—anything.But my tongue seems to have gone on vacation. All I manage is a shaky breath that probably gives away exactly how much his attention affects me.

I dive back under the covers, sighing in relief when his eyes finally release their hold.What is wrong with me?The man finger fucked me yesterday, and now I’m blushing because he looked at my tits?

“That’s for you.” Cade nods toward the foot of the bed where a large glossy shopping bag sits, its designer logo catching the light like a beacon.

Gifts? My eyebrow lifts in what I hope is sophisticated indifference, but I’m already reaching for the bag, curiosity winning over pride. I dump the contents onto the bed, and this time I can’t stop my gasp.

Three pairs of jeans spill out first—one dark wash, another gray with hand-distressed details, and a black pair with a stretch that promises to hug every curve. Half a dozen tops, ranging from tissue-thin cashmere to draped jersey in blacks, deep wines, and midnight blues that would make my skin glow. A pair of buttery leather Louboutin boots.

They’re all in my size, which is impressive enough, but then my fingers brush against French lace and silk.

Lingerie. The kind designed to make a man’s hands shake when unwrapping.

“Will they do?” He sounds almost . . . uncertain, though it’s quickly swallowed by that gruffness he always seems to carry with him.

I should be grateful; These items are exactly what I’d pick out myself. But an alien feeling twists my gut. Cade didn’t choose these himself. He didn’t stand in some boutique, imagining how silk would feel against my skin. Someone else did that for him—a woman who knows his tastes and how to shop for ‘his women.’

“I suppose,” I snap. “Thank her for me.”

“Sure.”

His dismissive tone makes my teeth ache, and I find myself asking, “Who’s she, anyway?”

He lets the silence stretch until it’s almost painful, then his eyes finally meet mine. “My sister.”

The floor disappears beneath me. My jaw drops so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the mattress. His sister? The woman whose cabinets I snooped through, whose bed I’m sitting in . . . is his sister?

Before I can pepper him with the thousand questions suddenly crowding my mouth—he shifts gears with whiplash speed.

“Listen. I can take you somewhere safe.”

“Where?” I ask, my brain still processing the ‘sister’ comment, while trying to keep up with this new direction.

He slowly sets his coffee mug down. “It’s a small town in San Diego County, two days’ drive from here.” His lips quirk. “Not five-star luxury, but you’ll be safe. And I’d bet happy as a pig in shit—there’s plenty of walking red flags there.”

The metaphor practically begs for a sharp comeback, but he presses on before I can find my tongue.

“Everything else, princess, you’ll just have to trust me.”

Theway he says it makes it sound simple. Like trusting him isn’t the most dangerous thing I could possibly do.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “And what about Moscow? Your plans with Antonov?”

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