Page 65 of Painted Scars
Her lashes flutter, then still. “I’m tired and achy. I’m going to sleep a little longer. Want to cuddle with me?”
PJ3 barks and trots over and jumps back into position.
“Hmm.” She scratches his chin. “Getting all territorial, huh? Warding off competition? I want it on record that you’re a tramp when Harper’s here, and I don’t exist.”
He groans with objection, and she giggles and curls into her pillow.
I know I should rest in the armchair in the opposite corner, but the adrenaline, fear, and rage of her almost-abduction is wearing off. She shifts, restless, and won’t settle unless I’m close. The thought of her waking up alone turns my stomach.
I’ll stay until the sun comes up. Longer if I have to, even if it undoes me.
When she’s out for the count, I slip off my helmet for air and text the group chat.
Me: Set up perimeter alerts and cameras. The whole package.
Fuck. I’ll have to deal with Murder Spice and ensure she doesn’t remove them again… when she comes home.
Grayson: Want retina-activated lasers too?
Smartass.
Me: Where is Murder Spice?
Katar: We’re playing.
Code for him torturing someone for answers. Kate will call everything off if he kills her friend. I rub my forehead.
Me: Playing what?
Katar: Detective and victim. You wanted time alone. I want answers. Win-win.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. He’s a psychopath with a flair for improv torture, but he gets results. I let it slide since he came back with answers I need on the roommate’s history. We’ll need to check in once I finish this task.
Me: Bring her back before I break your kneecap. And drive Grayson down here.
I end the chat and rig the doors and windows, setting them up for a warzone.
CHAPTER 18 - KATE
If I weren’t nursing a drug hangover, I might have thought I hallucinated. I pause mid-step and blink three times to check I’m not. Nope. Still there. My grumpy masked vigilante, stirring something in a pot like a domesticated god. Turns out the way to my heart is not just through flowers and chocolate. It’s filled by touch her and die vibes, literally, and home cooking.
Dear Demon Prince of Hell, thank you for answering my prayers!
I run my finger along the chilled glass of juice waiting on the counter. “Is this what post-trauma care looks like? You cooking?”
He looks up from the stove with a steamed visor that must be impossible to see through. “Isn’t that what you romance fiends want? A man who kills, cooks, cleans, and has a big dick?”
Darn right it is.
I gesture at the dishes in the sink. “You check off three from that list. Let’s see how well you do with the cleaning, Mr. Big Dick Energy.”
He snorts. “Glad to know the dick part’s confirmed.”
My lips twitch. “Never said which three.”
His low, husky laugh sparks heat in places that shouldn’t be heating after what went down at the club. “Dinner will be ready in ten. Hope you’re hungry.”
I can’t help the smile that tugs at me. No one’s done this for me. No rescue and nurture. Definitely no hot masked bikers cooking for me while I limp around, sans makeup and wearing my onesie that saysCertified Brat. Needs Dom. Apply Within.
