Page 149 of Broken Pieces
“Go strip down that old engine out the back. The one stacked near the scrap.”
Mason frowns, pausing long enough to make a point without saying a word. Then he tosses the tool onto the workbench and mutters something under his breath about being a dick before walking across the workshop.
Rainer lets it slide. He has more fucking patience than I ever will.
I move toward the front open roller door where the Mustang waits. She’s a beauty. Low, black, and mean. All engine and attitude. Exactly the kind of job I’d kill to take the lead on.
But then I hear it.
Rainer’s voice.
“You’re good for him, Skylar.”
I freeze mid-step, everything grinds to a halt.
“You think so?” Skylar asks.
Rainer clears his throat. “I’ve seen him try to outrun himself for months. It doesn’t work. But with you… He slows down.”
Chapter Twenty Five
Skylar
It’spastmidnightwhenI give up pretending to sleep.
The fan rattles over in the corner.
Zane lies beside me, bare chest rising slow, the kind of rhythm that makes my insides ache. One arm’s flung across me, fingers brushing the top of my thigh. Even unconscious, he’s touching me. Always. It’s instinct for him now. Possessive in a way that some part of him is terrified I’ll vanish if he lets go.
I sit up slowly, careful not to wake him. The sheet slips down my chest, cool air dragging over my skin. The window’s cracked open, moonlight spilling in and cutting across the floor, catching the edge of his jaw and the shadows between his abs.
It’s been hours since he came home from the garage, exhaustion in every line of his body. But instead of crashing, he went straight for the weights in the corner.
I probably should have looked away, but I didn’t. I sat there, without a trace of shame, watching his muscles working under that inked skin, the way his shirt clung to his back before hepulled it off and cast it aside. Every drop of sweat, every flex and bite of tension in his jaw. I took all of it in like a goddamn addict.
And now here I am, still staring.
He looks younger in sleep.
Less worn down by the weight he never talks about. No scowl carved into his features. No bite behind his stare. Lips, soft, opened around his breath, lashes long and dark against his cheek.
He looks so peaceful.
It’s a breathtaking kind of beauty.
My eyes drift to the ink on his collarbone, the way it disappears beneath the sheet and curves around muscle. It makes me want to trace every line with my mouth. Kiss it slow until he wakes up, rolls me under him and fucks all the noise out of my head.
I should lie back down.
But I don’t.
I stay sitting, watching the rise and fall of his chest. I could sit here all night staring at him and still not figure it out.
Why someone who doesn’t let anyone in... let me. Or why a person who’s all fists, fire and fuck-off attitude, kisses me so slowly some nights, I swear it’ll break me.
I reach down, touch the edge of his wrist where his fingers still rest against my thigh. And I wonder how long before he realizes he’s got my whole fucking heart in that hand.
I climb out of bed, careful not to wake him, the sheet dragging off my legs as I move.
