Page 85 of Painted Scars
Fuck. Didn’t need that mental image. And no, didn’t hear him over the TV.
I’ve vetted and cleared Kate from her ties to the Romans. Watched her bleed for the truth. She’s earned her place in Spartacus.
Murder Spice remains a question mark. Katar sticking his dick where the paperwork isn’t cleared doesn’t help.
Me: Is Murder Spice clean?
Grayson: Not exactly. Her loyalty is with Kate. Her blood lust runs colder than ours. Speak with Katar.
Seductive question marks with a body count is a conversation better had in person.
PJ3 tilts his head and groans when I slide off the seat.
“You’re right,” I whisper. “She’ll twist my balls if I leave without telling her.”
Fuck. What did Grayson say about talking to dogs and knitting?
I pocket my phone and slide my helmet on.
Crouched by the sofa, I undo Kate’s blindfold and cup her face. “Glitter Bomb.”
Her lashes flutter open, and her glazed eyes shift into focus. “Daddy?”
I brush the side of her face with the back of my hand. “Danger’s dialed down for now. I need to get back to my team for a while for updates. I’ll be back when I can.”
Her fingers clamp around my arm. “I don’t want to be alone.”
“I don’t want to leave you,” I murmur.
Her lips crush together in understanding. “Can you come back later?”
“Yes, baby.” I brush her cheek. “One of my men’s guarding the place. You’ll be safe. DM if anything changes.”
“Okay.” She releases me, and I reach for the blanket, tucking her in it.
I point at PJ3. “Guard her. Do not let her out of your sight.”
He groans in protest.
“Sorry.That’s the Way It Is,” I tell him.
It takes Glitter Bomb’s smile three seconds to break. “Closet Celine fan?”
“Gotta keep up with you.” I kiss her forehead, get up, and track upstairs to Murder Spice’s room.
Jesus, my ears need to be baptized with Celine Dion albums to forget the thrust-to-groan ratio.
I thump on the door over the moans. “Still guarding, Katar?”
“Like a fucking knight, boss.” He doesn’t miss a slap of hips on skin.
“If the unicorn is harmed while I’m gone, I’m taking your kidneys,” I growl.
“Only one?” Katar calls after me.
I don’t bother answering.
By the time I hit the bunker’s steel door, Grayson’s already waiting. Messy hair, jacket collar flipped inside out, undereyes dark from working overtime.
