Page 23 of Razor

She nods, tugging her lip between her teeth.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I’m not one for conversation, but it’s better than freaking her out with my real intention.

“You’re right about that. I’m just praying the nightmares turn to dust in my dreams one night.”

Her breathing is heavy, and she appears a little flushed, and I nod toward the lake in the distance.

“Come. You could use some rest.”

“I guess.” She pants, bracing her hands on her knees as she catches her breath, and I resist the urge to scoop her up in my arms and carry her there.

We walk in silence until we reach the shoreline, and I point to a clearing.

“Take a seat, princess. It’s not a throne, but worth more.”

Her eyes sparkle in the moonlight as she catches my eye, and I note the flush to her face that hits me square in the gut.

I’m already aware nothing good will come out of this because my attraction for this girl is tearing me up inside. I want her, and I’m not a man who wants much; however, for some reason, I want her more than I want to breathe right now.

We sit shoulder to shoulder, staring into the inky darkness of the lake, and she shivers.

“Are you cold?”

My voice rumbles in the stillness of the night, and she nods. “A little.”

I act on autopilot and drape my arm over her shoulder, noting how she tenses on impact and say huskily, “Relax darlin’, just warming you up. It’s basic survival practice.”

Her low chuckle almost raises a smile on my face.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“No.”

She turns, and her eyes glitter in the moonlight.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?”

“Because, well, a man like you must have lots of admirers, and I guess you can take your pick inside the bar.”

She’s not wrong. I can. Most of the women are fascinated with me and my brother. We give nothing away, just our cocks and they appear to take that as a challenge.

It’s funny how since I laid eyes on Sunday, I only see her—not them—which is probably why I’m taking a solo run in the middle of the night to work off my pent-up testosterone that a day in the field gifts me.

She slumps against me, and my hold tightens. Her tone soft as she whispers, “I left my family behind to come here, Razor. I miss them.”

“What brought you here?”

I’m curious because most of the broken angels have a soul-destroying story when they knock on our door, and she will be no exception, I’m sure.

“I’m running from a forced marriage if you’re interested.”

Fuck!

She continues. “There’s a local mobster who inherited his father’s empire. He went to my school and was the creepy kid that loitered in the shadows and perved on all the girls.”