Page 54 of To the Grave

Then he reached for the lock on the bathroom door — a lock I hadn’t even realized was there — and turned it. The metal clicked into place with ominous finality in the moment before he stalked toward me.

Backing up was instinctual, the primitive survival mechanism of prey retreating from predator. But I didn’t get far. I was already right up against the counter, holding the sink where I’d washed my hands.

He was on me in seconds, his muscular body pressed against mine, the weight and pressure bending me back until I was looking up at him.

He slid his fingers into the hair at the back of my head and tightened his grip, tipping my head back until I was forced to look up at him. I was having a hard time drawing breath, expectation hanging in the air between us.

Finally, he spoke. “For what it’s worth, even death couldn’t keep me away.”

I swallowed around the lump that had risen in my throat. “I don’t care.”

He dropped his head to my exposed neck, ran his nose along the sensitive skin under my ear. “You’re a fucking liar, Daisy Hammond.”

I inhaled as the warmth of his breath traveled along my skin. It raised goose bumps on my arms, made my nipples hard, sent a wave of wet heat to my cunt.

“No…” The protest sounded weak to my own ears.

“I felt you,” he said, dropping kisses from my ear to the base of my throat, one hand still pulling on my hair, tight enough to make me whimper as I rode the knife’s edge of the pleasure-pain only Jace could make me walk.

“I felt you missing me,” he murmured, his lips searing a path across my collarbone to the base of my throat, his hand sliding from the back of my head to my neck. “Like I missed you.”

His body was molded to mine, like we were two puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together.

“I didn’t.” My protest was as small as the mewl of a kitten.

The rumble of his chuckle vibrated through my chest as he pulled down my top to reveal one of my tits. “Your body always lies, princess.”

I threaded my fingers through his hair and gasped as he began to suck.

Chapter 39

Wolf

Iscanned the crowd around the fire until I spotted Derrick Mayer, a lean muscular man in street clothes. The gladiator sat on his right, the chair on his left occupied by a tall slender man in mechanic’s coveralls.

And then, as if by magic, the mechanic stood, said something to Derrick, and headed for the screen porch.

“Thanks,” I told Bruce. My mom hadn’t dated a ton, but of the few guys she’d seen over the years, I was glad Bruce was the one I’d run into. He’d always been a stand-up guy, respectful of my mom, nice to me.

“Sure thing,” Bruce said. “Tell your mom hello. She’s a good woman.”

I nodded and headed for the empty chair to Derrick, wanting to grab it before someone else came along.

Otis fell into step beside me as I skirted the other people around the fire, trying to keep my expression neutral and nonthreatening as they looked me over, wondering who the fuck the two outsiders talking to Bruce were and what the fuck they were doing at the Strike.

Derrick didn’t seem to notice though, or if he did, he didn’t show it. He was relaxed, sitting back in the wooden Adirondack chair, staring at the flames like they were a meditation.

I sat next to him and felt Otis take up position behind me.

One of the Barbarians was sitting next to me, a dark-haired man with an equally dark beard sans costume, unless you counted his Barbarians cut, worn over a black T-shirt. He glanced over at me, taking me in from head to toe, then seemed to decide I wasn’t a threat when I angled my body toward Derrick.

“Hey,” I said. “You Derrick Mayer?”

“Who’s asking?” the guy asked, still staring at the fire.

“Name’s Wolf. Wolf LaForte. I was friends with Jace Kane.” It was weird to refer to Jace in the past tense when he was alive and well somewhere in the Strike with Daisy, but I had no idea how much Derrick knew about Jace’s reported death, and we couldn’t afford to slip now.

He turned to look at me. “Arlo’s kid?”

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