Page 15 of Carrick
And that was more dangerous than anything the Dom Krovi could throw at me.
5
Bellamy
Even after the shower—hotenough to scald—my senses held onto the garage. I’d scrubbed myself clean, but the sharp tang of citrus, the burn of sweat and hot metal, and the static hum of Carrick’s attention still clung to me like something that wouldn’t wash off.That slow, smoldering quiet he wore like a second skin. He hadn’t touched me once, hadn’t said anything remotely inappropriate. But the way hewatchedme—steady, unreadable, and so sure of himself—I felt every glance like a palm pressed low on my spine.
I’d braced myself against the tile, steam curling at my shoulders, breathing in the quiet like it could anchor me.
It helped. A little. Fresh clothes clung to damp skin as I padded barefoot down the hallway, hoping to reach my room before anyone noticed. I hadn’t worked up the nerve to face them—the ones who moved through this place like they belonged, laughing in the kitchen and calling this strange safe house home.
I was just passing through. Temporary. A shadow stitched to someone else’s problem.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
I’d nearly made it to the bedroom door when Maddy popped out of nowhere like she’d been lying in wait.
“There you are,” she said, hands on her hips like a sassy little sentinel. “We’re having dinner. Like, real dinner. No excuses. Sully’s making pancakes—bourbon cinnamon something-or-other—and if you don’t come eat it, you’ll insult the food gods. Or Sully. Or both.”
I blinked at her. “I was just going to change?—”
“You already changed. I can smell your shampoo. Is that vanilla?”
“…maybe.”
“Then your argument is invalid.” She said it with such unapologetic glee that I forgot, for half a second, that we barely knew each other. She wasn’t pushing. Not really. Just… orbiting. Trying to draw me into her gravity. And God help me, it was working.
I crossed my arms. “I’m not really hungry.”
“Lies,” she said, cheerfully ignoring the tension in my shoulders. “You’ve been in the garage for two hours, which means you either sweat out your will to live, or you’re faking. Either way, food is the solution.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that,” Maddy said, stepping closer. “And I get it. I do. But just so we’re clear, being fine isn’t a prerequisite to eat. You don’t have to be okay to sit at a table and let people make you laugh, even if it’s awkward, and you’d rather chew glass. You don’t have to earn the right to exist in a room. Just let yourself be here, even if it’s messy.”
Her voice softened, not in pity but in understanding. The kind that comes from someone who’s clawed her way through the dark and still chosen to show up. The idea of sitting at a table with strangers still tightened something in my chest, but Maddy wasn’t a stranger anymore. Not exactly. There wassomething steady in her presence, something that didn’t ask anything of me but didn’t let me slip through the cracks, either.
I struggled for a response. Invitations with no strings attached were the hardest kind to accept.
Gently, she nudged my elbow. “Come eat. Sit near me. I’ll protect you from the testosterone tornado.”
A laugh burst from me before I could stop it, sharp and reluctant but real. “You’re very manipulative.”
“I prefer motivationally gifted,” she said, bumping my shoulder. “Come on. I promise we only bite on request.” She turned and floated down the hall, curls bouncing, confidence radiating like a force field.
And I followed. Not because I felt brave, or suddenly belonged, but because her invitation didn’t feel like a trap. It felt like a hand reaching for me in the dark. Maybe I was hungry, or maybe the ache came from being asked to show up instead of fading away.
The smell hit first. Smokey bacon. Fried eggs. Something sweet and boozy, thick with brown sugar and whiskey and the kind of buttery warmth that clings to memory. My stomach twisted with betrayal as we neared the kitchen. Voices carried through the air—Carrick’s low gravel, Sully’s booming laugh, someone else layered in smoother, softer.
I braced for awkwardness, expecting to hover like a stranger at the edge of a family gathering. But when Maddy swept into the room and Sully shouted something absurd about “the prodigal garage rat returning,” I didn’t feel like a stranger. Not exactly. I felt like a girl right on the edge of something. Raw. Half-wrecked. And maybe—just maybe—a little bit wanted. That terrified me.
The kitchen and dining room shared a long, open space, a lived-in blend of farmhouse charm and updated shine. Mismatched mugs and more syrup options than an IHOPcrowded the big handcrafted table, turning breakfast into a borderline spiritual experience. Sully stood at the stove in a gray Henley, sleeves shoved to his elbows, barefoot and flipping pancakes with the ease of a man who could kill with his pinky.
“You missed the great syrup debate,” he said over his shoulder. “But you’re just in time for the pancakes!”
Jax, already seated at the table, was mid-lecture about the rotational physics of pancake flipping. “—it’s all about angular momentum. You need a precise wrist flick, not a full arm motion. Otherwise, you overcompensate and get torque drag on the descent. Which ruins the flip entirely, unless you’re aiming for a splatter-based culinary tragedy.”
Maddy slid into the chair across from him. “I get a torque drag on the descent when I wear the wrong sports bra to go jogging.”
