Page 60 of Vengeance

“You do,” he said. “And they just happen to be as loud as a chainsaw.”

He laughed, and she smacked his chest. “Why haven’t you told me?”

“Because it’s cute,” he said. The word left his mouth before he could stop it.

Chloe grinned. “Did Vengeance Manzo just call me cute?”

“No,” he mumbled.

“You did,” Chloe insisted.

“I’m still half asleep.”

“You’ve been awake for at least an hour,” she said.

“Twenty minutes,” he admitted.

“That’s an hour in normal-people time.” He shook his head, and she laughed softly and settled her cheek against his chest again. The sound filled something inside him he hadn’t known was empty. For several minutes, they lay without speaking. Sunlight slowly crept around the edges of the curtains, casting a pale line across the wooden floor. The fire had burned down overnight, leaving only glowing embers in the stone hearth.

Vengeance stared at the ceiling. He wanted to stay there with her forever, and that was the problem. He wanted mornings like this. He wanted Chloe wearing his shirts and laughing at him on the porch. He wanted to rebuild the motorcycle with her standing nearby, pretending she understood what he was doing while handing him the wrong tools. He wanted things he had spent his whole life believing weren’t meant for men like him—a home, peace, and her.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He looked down, and Chloe’s smile had faded. “Nothing.”

“Liar,” she challenged.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re doing that thing again,” she insisted.

“What thing?” he asked.

“The one where your whole body goes stiff, and you pretend you aren’t thinking about something terrible.” He was scared of how well she could read him.

“I don’t do that,” he lied.

She raised her head. “You do it every time the radio crackles, every time you wake up from a nightmare, and every time I mention going home.” He looked away, and Chloe sat up, pulling the blanket around herself. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to say.”

“Vengeance.” Her voice sounded like a warning, and he knew better than to ignore her when she sounded exactly like Bowie.

He sighed. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

The hurt that crossed her face was immediate, and he hated himself for causing it. “You regret last night?”

“No.” His answer came too quickly for her to misunderstand.

“Then what do you mean?” she asked.

He pushed himself upright against the headboard.

“My father is still hunting you,” he reminded.

“I know,” she said, as though it was nothing to have a crazy man looking for her.

“We’re hiding in a house while Bowie and the club risk their lives trying to find evidence against him.”