Page 79 of Shootout Daddies
Her neck… her neck is marked up, bruises blooming faint purple and red like he wanted everyone to know exactly what he’d done to her. She looks wrecked, spent, like sex clings to her skin.
I freeze with the tongs still in my hand.
Hunter doesn’t. He lets out a sharp laugh, almost disbelieving, and shakes his head. “What the hell did that son of a bitch do to you?”
Ivy sighs and presses her palms to her cheeks. She doesn’t answer right away, just groans softly, embarrassed.
“It was… it was a one-time thing.” She looks between us quickly, almost defensively. “I think it’s out of our system.”
Hunter raises his brows but only nods, still chuckling. He bounces Chloe once on his knee, making her sigh against his chest.
Ivy crosses the room, leans down, and kisses Hunter’s cheek first. Then mine. Her lips linger a little longer than I expect, soft and tired. She smells different—his cologne mixed with her shampoo, the faint tang of sweat and heat that isn’t ours.
“Landon’s coming for dinner in an hour,” she says softly, brushing her hair back. “I’m going to shower and take a nap first. Chloe’s coming with me.”
Hunter helps her lift the baby, and Ivy tucks Chloe against her chest, humming low as she heads toward the hallway. The bedroom door clicks shut behind her.
For a long moment, the apartment is quiet again. Only the hum of the grill, the low pant of Storm as he stretches his paws.
Then Hunter glances over at me, a smirk tugging at his lips. “So do you think it was a one-time thing?”
I stab the tongs into the ribs, flip them harder than necessary, and snort. “No fucking way.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Yeah, didn’t think so. So how do you feel about it?”
I stare at the meat, watch the juices bubble and hiss. My chest should feel tight. My throat should burn. I should feel jealous. But I don’t.
“Surprisingly… okay,” I admit. The truth settles in my gut, steady. “Not jealous the way I thought I would be.”
Hunter stretches out, running a hand through his damp hair. “Guess that means we’ll just have to mark her up even more before she sees him again.”
His grin is crooked, teasing, but his eyes glint with something darker.
“It’s not a competition,” I tell him, shaking my head as I brush sauce over the ribs again.
“Maybe not,” he says, still smirking. But when I glance back at him, I can’t help it. I laugh too, low in my throat.
Because as much as I want to believe it isn’t, there’s something about the way she came in tonight—neck bruised, lips swollen—that has me thinking about the next time I’ll have her under me.
About the marks I’ll leave, the ones that will remind her exactly who she belongs to, no matter what happens at dinner.
The coals flare, and I let the heat rise up into my face, steadying myself with the thought.
Dinner first. Then we’ll see.
The smell of grilled ribs still lingers in the air when we all settle around the table. The plates are full, and the baby monitor sits between the glasses, a faint hiss of static filling the pauses.
Ivy takes the head of the table. She’s showered, her hair damp and curling against her shoulders.
She’s wearing a loose cream blouse tucked into soft navy shorts, the kind that ride up when she shifts in her seat. Simple and casual, but she looks luminous.
The glow of steam from the bathroom still clings to her skin, her cheeks flushed pink. My stomach knots at the thought that not all of that color is because of the shower.
Landon sits across from me, still in a dark shirt and tailored slacks, jacket draped neatly over the back of his chair. His tie is gone, collar open, but he still looks sharp as a blade.
Controlled. Watching everything.
He lifts his fork and nods once. “The food’s excellent.”
