Page 8 of Inked Daddies

Her kind heart kills me. If anyone else said something like that, I would laugh in their face, given the circumstances. But not Marie. Never Marie.

She doesn’t have a violent bone in her body. Marie Durand is soft everywhere, not only in her heart but her whole self. Feeling her pressed against me is almost enough to make me forget about the fight and concentrate on her. The things I would do to this woman…

It doesn’t matter. She’s Preacher’s daughter. Even if she weren’t fifteen years younger than me, it’d still be wrong for that reason alone. Propriety is not something I normally hold to, but when it comes to screwing around with my old friend’s daughter, I’m willing to make an exception.

For now. But if she keeps giving me thosefuck meglances, I cannot be held accountable for my actions.

They hoist him up—Sam’s got his shoulders, Trick’s got his feet. I keep one arm snug around Marie. Not that she’s trying to run. She’s trembling against me, her breath hitching every few seconds, but she’s holding herself together. Barely.

It’s no hardship keeping her close. She smells like vanilla and sugar, like something you’d get second helpings of just to keep the sweetness in your mouth a little longer. I should be keeping a leash on my libido, but every brush of her body against mine sends a man’s mind wandering—to places it shouldn’t when there’s a body being dragged across the street.

Marie Durand.

She came back from Boston six months ago, and ever since, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. She’s not the little girl who used to hang around the shop, flipping through the tattoo books and giggling when Trick told her jokes. Not the girl who skinned her knee on our street when she fell off her bike.

She’s a woman now. A smart, gorgeous, impossible-to-ignore woman. And now she’s in my arms, shaking like a leaf, and all I can think about is how much I want her.

Not just in my arms. In my bed. Inourbed.

The problem is, I haven’t exactly shared that thought with Sam and Trick yet. It’s complicated. We share everything, but this? This could get messy fast.

Preacher is the guy who saved our asses more than once, and vice versa. After everything we’ve been through, he’s a brother. Hell, he’s practically a saint—a man of the cloth these days. Dragging his daughter into hell feels wrong on so many levels. That’s not exactly the kind of thing you do to someone you respect.

But I can’t help myself.

Besides, she’s not some untouchable angel, no matter how angelic she looks in her floral sundresses. Every inch of her is a woman. Her choices are her own.

I hold the shop door open for the guys, and Trick grunts as he adjusts his grip on the bastard’s legs. “Where do we want him?”

I’m unsure, but I think this guy is awake and playing unconscious. So I keep it coded. “Room two, away from the street window. Strap him in. Let him get real comfortable.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, just moves like a machine, methodical and focused. Trick, of course, makes a show of dropping the guy into the chair with as much noise as possible, but Sam doesn’t even flinch. He’s already grabbing zip ties, securing the guy’s wrists to the armrests like he’s done this a hundred times before.

He has, though perhaps not a hundred. That sounds low.

Marie’s still tucked against me, her fingers clutching at my T-shirt like she’s afraid to let go. I lean down, speaking low into her ear. “You okay, sweetheart?”

She nods, but it’s still shaky, her light brown eyes darting toward the chair where Sam tightens the last strap. “What…what are you going to do to him?”

There’s no sense in explaining what we’re up to. She doesn’t need to know, and we don’t need her to be a loose end. “You don’t have to be here for this. Why don’t I take you to the breakroom? I’ll get you that cup of tea.” Not that I want to leave. I like to watch Sam work.

Her head snaps up, those big, tear-filled eyes locking onto mine. “No. I don’t want to go anywhere. Not without you. Without all of you. I feel better with all of you here.”

Something in my chest tightens at that. She’s scared, yeah, but not just of the guy in the chair. She’s scared of losing us. Of losing the safety we’re giving her right now.

In that moment, I know she’d never be a loose end. She’d never rat us out to the cops.

“Alright,” I say, brushing a thumb over her smooth, unmarked arm. I’d bet folding money she’s ink-free. Gotta stop thinking about that, or all the blood will rush out of my head. I’m already not thinking clearly about her. “You’re staying with us. We’ll be right here, handling him. But if it gets to be too much, you tell me, yeah? Call out my name, anything, and I’ll come running.”

She nods again, and I guide her toward the couch in the next room, settling her down with a blanket before heading back to the action.

The kid is pretending to sleep. Under the bright lights of the shop, he looks too young to be mugging people. Not that I was much older when I started in the game. But by the looks of him, we were in it for different reasons. I didn’t so much mugpeople as picked pockets, and mostly, it was for fun. This kid, though, he looks rough. His skin and clothes are dirty, like he’s been outside for a while. Even his fingernails could use a good scrubbing.

Considering how he frightened Marie, I might find my pliers and yank them off. That would wake him. She swore we got out there in time, but her fear makes me violent.

Sam’s voice is low and cold, sharp enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. “You’ve got two minutes to tell me who sent you, and if you waste those two minutes? I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.”

I glance at Trick, who’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching like this is his favorite kind of entertainment. It’s not—that would be women dancing on a stage. I’ve never seen someone with such an appreciation for strip clubs. But he’s like me when it comes to seeing Sam work an asset.

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