Page 123 of Unconditionally Yours
She gives me this look like I’ve just passed a test. “It won’t be easy. Gonna be some blood. Maybe some biting. But if you don’t chicken out and you go full feral? You’ll get ‘em all.”
“Oh, baby,” I say. “I’ve never chickened out. There’s court documentation.”
“Hell yeah,” she laughs. “Can I invite you to my wedding? I got no friends.”
“Bitch, we are bonded for life in fated bean juice now,” I say, and rattle off my number.
She carves the digits into her arm with a broken nail. We’ve probably just made a blood pact under a full moon.
I clutch my spit coffee. My fate is sealed. Destiny said so. And Destiny doesn’t fuck around.
“Miss Darling, you’ve been bailed out,” the guard grunts sounding shocked that someone wants me free.
I give Destiny a look through the bars. “Hey. You can really call me, okay? For the wedding. Or the apocalypse. Whichever hits first.”
She salutes me with her coffee. I hope I get to be a bridesmaid in something slutty and cursed.
They march me to a desk and shove paperwork at me. I sign it with the smug flourish of someone who didn’t learn a single lesson. They return my things in a plastic bag, including my underwear, folded. Is that a message or a kink I haven’t unlocked yet?
Then it’s into the changing room where I scrub myself back into something vaguely human. Something worthy of kissing whichever man is on the other side of those doors. Benji? Rhys? Are they here to pick me up? Will they help get Jett out too?
The second I step into the lobby, the question explodes into glitter and orgasm fog.
Because it’s him.
Jett fucking Ryker.
All my tension evaporates. The grossness of jail peels off me. There he is: bruised, brooding, and looking like every mistake I want to make in the next 48 hours. His jeans cling to those thighs like they’ve filed for co-dependency. The cut on his cheek has scabbed.
He looks at me. Really looks. Eyes slow, lingering, dark, thinking filthy things he plans to say later. “You ready to go home, princess?”
Did he just? Does this mean he forgives me? I don’t ask. I don’t breathe. I just move.
I launch across the lobby like a heat-seeking missile for bad decisions. Jett catches me mid-air. I wrap my legs around him, lock my ankles behind his back. His hand cups my ass. The other buries in my hair and yanks, hard enough to make me gasp.
He drags my mouth open and devours me. Not kisses, claims. I moan into him like a girl getting publicly rawed by forgiveness.
The desk lady clears her throat.
Some guy getting dragged in by cuffs lets out a low whistle.
I grin against Jett’s mouth, shameless and soaked. “I left my car at therapy.”
He bites my bottom lip. “You can ride me instead.”
Fucking hell.
He doesn’t mean it as a joke. And my pussy is already pulling out her helmet and a GoPro.
I follow him to the bike, and he pats a small pad behind his seat. That’s new. For me?
He kicks out the pegs like it’s no big deal. My legs might not even reach, but I’d sooner die than let physics cockblock me now.
When he tosses me a helmet, I almost lose it. It’s black, all sleek and tiny, and there’s pink glitter swarming over it. And a tiny crown. A fucking crown. My throat tightens like he just handed me a proposal ring instead.
I just stare at it. I might actually start crying. “You. For me. After what happened?”
“You’re mine, Delilah. I’ll figure out what the hell that means. Just be patient.” His tone is a potent mix of ownership and promise.
