Page 138 of Born for Lace

Tomar’s eyes widen.

My heart leaps—I have seen how quickly Lagos can kill a man, seconds, within the blink of an eye, the beat of a heart, he can have a man bleeding on the ground.

So when he grabs the back of Tomar’s neck, lifting him beyond the safety of his feet, I know he is fighting his own internal battle to not kill his brother, his friend, his companion.

“Brother,” Tomar gasps.

“I warned you,” Lagos seethes.

I blink up at my brute, dressed in grey pants but naked from the waist up, fierce, possessive rage thundering through every inch of him.

“Lagos, please. Put him down.”

Lagos growls. “Why are you in her room?” His black gaze cuts to me, blazing. “Why are you on the fucking bed with your legs like that?”

“Don’t hurt her,” Tomar begs, taking me by surprise. He’s still protecting me, so misguided and confused, and protectingme.

I hear a crack.

I think it’s from Tomar’s back as he hangs from his neck, his heavy body like a weight on the narrow channel of bones.

“Lagos,please,” I beg again. Sliding from the bed, I take hesitant steps toward the seven-foot-tall Xin De assassin, reassuring him. “Nothing happened between us.”

“Bring those sheets. Let me smell your lies, little flower.”

I sob. “I swear it.”

“I can’t trust you,” Lagos snarls at Tomar, the statement final, a bullet to the heart. “I was locked-up, inhaling the knickers you stole, beaten, abused, altered. I’ve been through hell,brother. Would you like me to send you there?”

“Lagos.” Beside him now, I touch his shoulder, and he freezes. His eyes slide to my hand, brows furrowing. “I loveyou.” I blink tears, wishing for everyone to disappear, fade away, and leave me alone with him.

Him.

Lagos.

My brute.

With darkness and cruelty and trauma. A vicious killer. More monster than man.

And mine.

As I am his.

“Do you trustme?” I whisper beside him, my voice trembling with emotion. I reach for his other hand and place it on my swollen stomach. “Trust me. There is only you. There will only ever be you.”

Growling, he drops Tomar.

“You’re on your own,” he states, voice deep and flat, cold. “I paid my debt to you.” Lagos stares at his hand, cradling his unborn child, hypnotised—subdued. “Stay away from me, brother. I want you to live, so stay the fuck away.”

Tomar scrambles to his feet but stills at the door, risking a moment so he can memorise the sweet boy in the cot—Spero. The boy he showed the glowworms to, who he cuddled and sang to. Tomar’s blue gaze glosses over, and pain spears me right through the chest.

Then he leaves.

And I feel like…

It is for forever.

Goodbye, Tomar.

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