Page 66 of Painted Scars
My heart stutters with the inability to process gentleness anymore. Trust is a fractured muscle torn by strangers who pretended to be safe, but scarred me with nights I can’t erase. Anyone outside the circle of blood and battle-earned bonds became collateral damage to my trauma. Yet, here is Grumpy Daddy, staying, feeding, and protecting like a damn book boyfriend. My whole body tenses, waiting for the catch… because there’s always one, right?
I creep over to spy on what he’s stirring and sending my taste buds into a riot. Tomato, garlic, onion, and oregano simmer in the pot. Liquid spits on his gray t-shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care. My inner neat freak goes into overdrive, and I yank open the third drawer and toss him a black apron withBook Slutembroidered in large hot pink letters.
He unfolds it and stares at the cryptic letters underneath the main title. “STFUATMDLAGG?” He reads out each letter slowly.
I giggle at his confusion and spell out the meaning for him. “Shut the fuck up and take my dick like a good girl.”
He groans, more exasperated than offended. “You girls are a menace.”
“And proud of it.” I hook the neck strap over his head. “No kink shaming in this house. It’s tradition.”
Damn, where’s my phone when I need it to capture the evidence of him wearing it? Harper and Charlie will die when I tell them about this. It’s probably with my purse, wherever he left it. Upstairs? I don’t want to ruin the moment by getting it.
“I’m going to use that line,” he mutters, mixing the sauce like a good little stalker.
My heart sprouts wings and flutters in a forbidden way. Grumpy Daddy is teasing back! Speaking my love language of flirting, humor, and coded innuendo. Playing my bodyguard arc to a T. And fuck me, two guarded strangers letting their walls down is more intimate than undressing.
Rational me turns investigative reporter with more questions. Does he trust me now that he knows I don’t play on the Romans’ side? Sharing his past with me partially validates that but leaves me curious about the specifics and if he wants to supply testimony in one of my articles. Does he really have my back now that we’re working together? Does this end in gunfire and heartbreak? He said Blackthorn will come for me. What the fuck are we going to do? Run and hide?
Book Girlie me shoves her aside, rewriting the bodyguard arc into a sexy, slow burn of two broken souls with a dash of he falls first and delivering on the STFUAMDLAGG line.
Whatever happens, this feels like a win. Like I’ve passed an invisible test.
I return to Grumpy Daddy’s comment of using the line and pat my hands together. “Only if you use it in a deep, dominant growl!”
Yeah, it’s reckless, and I ought to be wary of a faceless man who may ruin me. The part of me that craves control wants to claim my power on my terms, with a joke and flirting.
“Drink. You need to rehydrate,” he orders, and my lady parts shiver.
I take a sip of the pineapple juice.
Book Girlie assumes the wheel and spits out leading inquiries. “Thanks for staying and taking care of me. You didn’t have to. It’s rare for a man to stay, let alone cook.”
The pit in my stomach churns when he stops stirring and lowers his head.
“I didn’t want to leave,” he admits.
My walls scramble to rebuild from the way he says that, like leaving me would cost him something.
Stupid heart, don’t read into it.
Tell that to my pulse, which quickens at what he’ll say to my next enquiry. “Is this about protecting me or something else?”
I have to know. I’m starting to worry about why I care so much. It’s stupid to hope this will be anything more than a revenge fantasy mixed with sexual tension and an expiration date. Maybe it’s the trauma talking. Or I’m starting to care. The last time I cared for a man, he left and broke me, and I don’t want to go through that again.
Grumpy Daddy doesn’t answer right away, just shifts his weight like the truth is something too heavy to carry.
I backpedal with a grin that doesn’t quite reach my lips. “The third drawer in the kitchen contains a stash of Harper’s knives and a gun. I’m armed and dangerous if anyone unfriendly drops by.”
“Both,” he finally says. “And I’m not leaving you to fight Blackthorn alone.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’re hard to read behind that mask.”
“Good.” His tone is dark velvet and danger. “I like it that way.”
Why does that sting?
“Even with me?”
