Page 27

I could go home. Get back in my pajamas, recap my entire night to Eleanor, then go to sleep peacefully with absolutely no tortured thoughts. None at all. Or I could follow Dillon into his house and do what I thought I was coming here to do.

Make sure he’s okay.

The fight with Warren has been in a constant loop in my head since it happened. My brother is hurting, that much is obvious. I know I don’t have the full story, Dillon does.

Dillon knows. Dillon has the answers, and Dillon is pissed off enough about it all that he bashed his head against my brother's like a moron.

My mouth is moving before my feet are. Dillon is reaching for the doorknob when I start walking towards him.

“Are you concussed? Is that why you sent Manna home? Rattled your brain so hard, you couldn’t get it up?”

I breeze by Dillon into his house without slowing down. If I slow down, I’m not sure I’ll make it past the threshold. The house is quiet, no baby babbling, no cartoons on. But there is a candle lit on the coffee table.

A candle. Lit. All he’s missing is the classic, smooth R&B music, and he would have had himself a cozy little sex den. For Manna.

“My cock works just fine, Emerson. Thanks for asking.”

I sputter. “Aw. Well, we can blame the concussion for your speedy finish this time. Did you order the Uber for her before you gave her the wildest two minutes of her life? I wonder what hairspray she uses because not a wave was out of place.”

Dillon leans against the doorway to the living room and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks at me for several long, drawn-out seconds. My legs are vibrating, and I can physically feel all the words forming and balling themselves together, ready to pour out if he doesn’t fucking say something soon.

“I’m fine, Em.” He says eventually. It’s quiet and rough. Deep and honest.

“Are you sure?” I ask, voice even quieter.

Dillon nods slowly, watching me. I think perhaps this is what a field mouse would feel like when they realize they’ve been caught by a cat. No, that’s not right. I’m no mouse, and Dillon is certainly not a cat.

I’m a fox.

Dillon is a wolf.

I need to get out of here.

He bites his lip then hisses, touching the skin with his fingers.

I gulp down all the unwelcome hormones and shake out my hands, moving to him despite feeling like I’m seconds away from doing or saying something detrimentally stupid. So, I keep my lips shut and grab his hand this time, dragging him down the hall to his bathroom. I blink several times after flipping on the switch; the fluorescent lights much brighter than the dim, warm-toned lamp in his living room.

I drop his hand to rifle through his cabinet, but his presence fills the bathroom. I set down a bottle of antiseptic and suck in a breath, wiping my hands on my pants.

“Amanda is a colleague,” Dillon says quietly behind me.

“Great. I’m sure mixing business and pleasure is the best idea.”

Dillon steps closer.

This was the detrimental mistake, I fear. Bringing him in here with me.

“You love making assumptions about me, baby b.”

“You make it very easy.”

“Do I?” he murmurs. When did he get so close? I grab a clean washcloth and the bottle and turn, holding them in the minimal space between us like a shield.

“What am I going to do now then?”

I huff, fumbling with the bottle to get the cap off. I use my teeth and spit the white top out at him before absolutely drenching the towel with way more of the liquid needed for the cut on his mouth. My hands are absolutely not shaking. They’re not.

The bastard barely flinches when I press the edge of the dripping cloth to his busted lip. His blue eyes are watching me with a well of shit swimming in their depths that I want no part of. I swallow thickly, dragging my eyes away from his and watching his mouth intently instead.