“Only you would call vampires boys.”
“I’m an original,” he snorts.
“Sure.” I walk inside and lock the door. “Watch Charlie. If I can get away without leaving Rylee alone, I will. If he takes one step in this direction, I need to know.”
“Will do. If it makes you feel better, I don’t think he’s a mastermind stalker. He didn’t try to hide his interest in watching the building or the people. He’d be picked up easily with witnesses.”
“That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“I tried.”
“I appreciate it,” I drawl.
“I’m always here for reassurance.”
“Sure. I’m hanging up.”
I return to the bedroom and pause at the side of the bed. Losing any time with Rylee doesn’t make me happy. I know she isn’t defenseless, yet I want to be the one to protect her. If I told her about Charlie, she’d volunteer to come with me to track him. It’s my decision to take care of it without her knowing anything. I could find him, kill him, and sweet-talk Bash into disposing of the body so that I could get back to her. She doesn’t need to know about another man trying to make her life hell. I want her to live easily. If she asks where I went, I wouldn’t keep it from her, but then it would be done.
I respond to Issy, telling her to have fun, and drop my phone on the table. Slowly lifting the comforter, I slide toward my mate. Rylee rolls close and sprawls across my chest, her thighsliding over mine. The tension leaves my body as her scent fills my nose, and her body heat seeps into my skin. This is heaven. She makes me forget everything but her. I glide my hand underneath her hair and to the crook of her neck. I trace my mark.
I will make sure pain doesn’t touch her again.
Whatever I have to do.
“You’re cooking?” Rylee freezes on the threshold of the bedroom.
“Mom taught me.” I grin.
“I don’t cook.”
“I know.” I tilt my head, staring at her disheveled hair.
“It’s not a problem?” She walks toward me, putting her hair in a bun.
“Why would it be? I can, or we order food.” I lift a shoulder.
“I don’t think you're real.” She narrows her eyes, but leans against my side.
“Mouth,” I demand, and she tips her head back. I kiss her briefly, and then nod to the coffee cup in front of us.
“Yours.”
“Thanks.” She picks it up. “No pancakes?”
“Not today. My mom is coming. I don’t want her getting jealous if she sees I made them. She likes to think she’s the only one who can.” I open the waffle maker.
“How are these different?”
“Many reasons,” I say, winking at her. I put the cooked waffle on a plate.
“Don’t you use the same batter?”
“Oh, my sweet mate. I have so much to teach you.” I wiggle my eyebrows, and she laughs.
“I bet you do,” she hums, and takes a drink. “I’ve tried to make pancakes. It was an epic failure.”
“How?” Pouring the mix into the griddle, I look at her, appreciating her openness.
