Page 15 of Scornful

Only one remark about me being more careful, which is practically restrained for him.

"Thanks for the ride," I say as he pulls up outside my building.

"Want me to come up, check the place out?" he offers.

I shake my head. "I'm good. Laken doesn't know I live here. Just moved, remember?"

At least, I hope he doesn't.

Emil looks like he wants to argue but instead pulls me into a bear hug. "Call if you need anything. Doesn't matter what time."

"I will," I promise, squeezing him back.

My apartment feels unusually empty when I let myself in, the silence pressing in from all sides.

I go through my nightly routine on autopilot—shower, moisturize, brush teeth, check the locks twice—all before collapsing onto my bed.

As I lie here, staring at the ceiling, my mind returns again and again to Geirolf.

To the way he moved like a predator, yet was so controlled and lethal at the same time.

To the way his ice-blue eyes seemed to see right through me.

To the unexpected surge of...something...that had passed between us when our fingers touched.

I know it could never work, not even in another lifetime.

Plus, Dad would lose his mind if he knew I was even thinking about Geirolf that way.

Besides, men like Geirolf don't go for women like me.

They want thehoraswith their perfect bodies and ‘fun’ personalities, not curvy massage therapists with baggage.

Laken made that perfectly clear during our relationship.

All those little digs about my weight, my clothes, how I could be "so pretty" if I just tried harder.

I roll onto my side, pulling the covers up to my chin.

Tomorrow, I'll go back to normal.

I'll work at the spa, have lunch with Meghan if she's free, maybe catch a movie with Ingrid this weekend.

I won't think about the club, or my overprotective family, or Geirolf's massive hands and intense eyes.

But as sleep finally claims me, it's Geirolf's face that follows me into my dreams, and for once, they're anything but nightmares.

CHAPTER THREE

Geirolf

The wrench slips from my oil-slicked fingers for the third time in an hour, clattering against the concrete floor of the club's garage with a metallic ring that echoes across the space.

"Motherfucker," I growl, rolling my shoulders as pain lances through my upper back.

I've been hunched under Kraken's Dyna for nearly six hours straight, rebuilding the engine that seized up on him last week.

"Man, you look like shit."

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