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“I just need to grab the tea and a couple of glasses.”
Embry sat up, nabbing a sandwich off the plate. “I can’t wait. I’m starving.”
“Me either,” I laughed, grabbing a sandwich and taking a bite. “I’ll be right back.”
Embry’s kitchen was almost identical to the layout of mine.
Or, I should say, Fred’s. The same center island, cabinets with honey-colored stained wood, a stainless-steel sink and appliances, and granite countertops. Most of the houses in this neighborhood were a bit cookie-cutter but still lovely.
I opened the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of iced tea, noting Embry had cut up lemon wheels and stuck them inside. Cute.
I grabbed a couple of glasses, turned around, and slammed into a solid wall of muscle. The glasses slipped from my fingers, but I managed to hold onto the pitcher.
“Shit,” I whispered, cringing before they hit the floor and shattered.
They didn’t. A big, powerful, solidly built biker caught them first. He smirked as I gasped.
“Slash.”
“The one and only,” he replied.
“Uh, hi.”
He pushed his sunglasses over his forehead while his dark eyes assessed my face. His smile faded, and I watched his jaw grind. Instantly, his expression went from playful to hard as volcanic rock.
Slash set the glasses on the counter, grabbed the pitcher from my hands, and set it beside them. He moved into my personal space, gripping my jaw as his eyes narrowed. The tenderness of his touch was such a contrast to the cold obsidian of his eyes that I flinched.
“I won’t hurt you.”
“I know.” I swallowed the pool of saliva suddenly filling my mouth. “You just look pissed, and I don’t know why.”
He turned my head to the side, staring at my face as his thumb slid over my cheek. “Who hit you?”
Oh. Fuck.
My makeup must have washed off in the pool.
“I, uh,” I stammered, unable to finish when he had his hands on my body. The one held my face, but the other had drifted to my waist, curling around my hip. “Slash.”
“Who. Hit. You.”
Oh, God. The way he growled those words, I could see what other people did. The dangerous biker who spilled blood to protect his club. The vicious outlaw and rebel capable of vengeance and violence that scared the police and infuriated men like my older brother, Torin, who worked for the FBI. A member of a notorious biker gang who could gun a man down while riding his Harley. Not that I believed Slash would do any of those things, but the rage in his eyes was magnificently intimidating.
I didn’t reply.
“I’m only gonna ask one more time before I start hunting down every motherfucker who ever dared to look at you.”
Well, shit.
Was it possible to be turned on and terrified by the same sentence?
Before I had a chance to reply, Embry opened the sliding glass door and entered.
“Molls, what,” she began, blinking as she saw Slash. She blinked, frowned, and turned to me, her gaze sliding over my face. “Oh, shit!”
Chapter 2 Slash
My grip on Molly tightened. Someone hurt her. They fucking hit this sweet girl and bruised her face. It wasn’t a slap or some accidental shove. They. Fucking. Hit. Her.
