Page 59 of Renegade Ruin

Before I can silently berate my dead and unconscious best friends, Willow answers the door and all coherent thought goes out the window.

I swear she only owns one thing because once again she’s wearing the skirt I love, only in black this time. But that’s not all I notice. It’s like now that I’m no longer actively hating her, I’m seeing her for the first time.

She’s still fucking radiant, a blonde goddess, but how did I miss the slight dusting of purple under her eyes and the crease between her brow? The way her cheeks hollow when her expression drops and the way her go-to stance is no longer one with shoulders pinned back in confidence.

Has it been like this every time I’ve seen her? Was it all just a show, and I was just too blind to notice?

It doesn’t matter that my soul is torn where Willow is concerned. I don’t think, only react, wrapping her in my arms and crushing my lips to hers, as if somehow this thing we share will protect her from whatever it is that plagues her. The same way it does for me.

Willow tenses before she relaxes in my arms and returns my kiss, her lips eager. Her hands tangle in my hair and a soft mewl escapes her. Fuck, I love the sounds this woman makes. That’s one thing that’s never changed—everything about her is intoxicating.

My hands find her waist and slide over her ass, my fingers digging into what is debatably my fourth favorite part of her body—preceded only by her mind, lips, and pussy.

“Willow?” a voice echoes down the hall from the office. “Everything okay?”

“Shit,” she murmurs against my lips. “I’m still in my meeting.”

I lean away and smile reassuringly. “I can wait.”

“I told you I wouldn’t be done until six,” she whispers, and untangling herself from my arms, looks down and straightens her skirt.

“I…” I bite my tongue, stopping myself from telling her about my therapy session and why I didn’t want to be alone. “Have you eaten?”

“No.” She hesitates, and I’m immediately suspicious of the way she glances toward the ground. “I was planning to just order something later.”

I’d bet my contract that’s a lie, given what I know about Willow and the way she was raised by a mother who only cared about her figure. She’s admitted to me before that when she’s stressed, she’ll forget to eat, mostly because that’s how it was when she grew up. Her mother would be angry or too focused on whatever was the latest made-up socialite tragedy of the day and would cancel dinner for the household, forbidding the staff from making it. Her father would get home late, after Willow was in bed, leaving her hungry and alone.

How could I possibly believe Willow would allow herself to be anything like that monster of a woman?

Because you’re a fucking idiot,Tommy snaps lightheartedly in my mind.

He’s right.

I nod toward the office. “Go back to your meeting. I’ll cook.”

“You cook?” she asks, skepticism written across her face.

“I know. Incredible, right?” It’s easy to forget that despite the fact we know each other intimately, there is still so much we didn’t cover during those late-night rendezvous.

“I don’t think—” She shakes her head and smiles sympathetically. “We have rules, Bishop. This doesn’t feel like it constitutes as part of a distraction.”

She’s right. Cooking for her somehow feels more intimate than it should, but I shrug it off. “This doesn’t break them. It’s really for your benefit. I am going to need you fueled up if I’m going to fuck you like I want to.”

Her eyes go wide, and I swear I see her clench her thighs. It’s incredibly sexy and has the blood from my brain traveling south.

“Fine. I mean, I don’t know what’s in the kitchen, but you can have at it.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

She sighs as she turns and heads back down the hall toward the office, and I follow, veering right toward the kitchen.

I’m appalled by what I find.

It makes sense she didn’t know what was in the kitchen because there’s not much. I’m going to have to MacGyver something from the meager pantry staples, frozen items, and my saving grace—eggs. For a split second, I consider pulling out my phone and ordering takeout, but if the containers in the trash are any indication, she’s been living on whatever delivers to the house.

In this case, I’m thinking breakfast for dinner is going to be easiest. Omelets, to be specific. Mostly because one, who doesn’t like breakfast and two, there aren’t a whole other lot ofother options.

Willow’s voice carries through the house as I thaw some turkey bacon and get the pan hot enough to sauté some veggies. Though I can’t make out everything she’s saying, I’m ninety percent sure she’s on a call with the board of Renegade Hearts if the mentions of camp and dollars are any indication.

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