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Not surprisingly, the door was locked, but if no one had ever installed a deadbolt… French doors were notoriously easy to breach. And God knew he’d never been a saint.
After a little jimmying and a swipe of a plastic card later, a click told him that lock wouldn’t be an impediment anymore. He worked the rope free so that no passersby would spot his means into the unit, coiled it, and secured it to the side of his belt.
Then he walked into the apartment.
He smelled Brea before he saw her. But she wasn’t in the rumpled king-size bed in the master. A touch to the warm sheets told him she’d been here recently, though.
Her purse sat in the nearby chair, with her skirt and sweater draped neatly over its back. A small duffel perched on the carpet beside it, next to her shoes.
She was definitely here.
Through the crack in the door, he saw a faint sliver of light flicker on. He peeked into the rest of the smallish, shadowy apartment. On the far side of the unit, a lone pale bulb above the stove illuminated its burners and cast a halo of light into the rest of the kitchen.
In the middle stood Brea.
The sight of her, barefoot with her long, loose hair flowing to her waist, was a sucker punch to his chest. His whole body went taut. His temper flared.
She’d had the chance to tell him about his baby when they’d been alone at the salon a few hours ago. She fucking hadn’t. Had she ever intended to tell him? Or had she simply planned to pass off his kid to the rest of the world as Cutter’s?
Brea stepped toward the refrigerator. The hem of her thin nightgown skimmed her slender thighs. She looked small and vulnerable. Fuckable. He was angry as hell, but not even fury stopped desire from scalding his veins. Nothing did, goddamn it. Anytime he and Brea were in the same room, he wanted her. But when she was half-dressed and alone, like now? All he could think about was stripping her down, then penetrating and fucking her until she clung to him. Until she screamed. Until she admitted that she only wanted him.
Until she confessed that she was still in love with him.
One-Mile yanked on his mental leash. He’d come here with objectives. Prying the truth out of her came first. After that… Well, he saw no reason not to press Brea underneath him until she understood she was at his very dubious mercy. Then he’d happily prove her will to resist him was all show.
And he’d confess, too. He had no problem being brutally honest about the fact that, when it came to Brea Bell, he had no defenses.
One-Mile crept out of the bedroom and trekked across the dark living room, never taking his eyes off her. She tugged on the refrigerator door and ducked inside to grab a glass. After a few swallows, she turned, giving him her profile as she yawned and stretched.
The gleam of the nearby light penetrated her sheer nightgown. He caught sight of the small but unmistakable bump of her belly.
More proof that Brea was pregnant and that baby was his.
Two urges hit him at once. To stamp his claim on her and their child, yes. That, he’d expected. But he hadn’t anticipated the extra kick of lust impacting his system at the sight of her rounding and fertile. He wanted his hands on her, his fucking mouth all over her, his dick everywhere inside her. He wanted her to understand she belonged to him—now, always, and forever.
Brea shut the refrigerator door, then leaned over to extinguish the bulb above the stove. A split second before the room went dark, she caught sight of him. Their gazes connected. Her eyes flared. The cup slipped from her hand.
As blackness fell, the sounds of glass shattering filled the air.
“Pierce?” she gasped.
Was she surprised he’d found her or spooked that he’d broken into Cutter’s lair to reach her? Either way, the raw panic in her trembling voice was unmistakable.
If she didn’t know yet that he intended to screw up all her wedding plans, she should.
“Don’t move.” Crossing the tile floor, he reached the stove and flipped on the light once more, shards of shattered glass crunching under the thick soles of his combat boots.
Brea blinked at him, pale and shaking. “W-what are you doing here?”
He prowled toward her. “Did you really think you and I were done?”
“What, talking?”
An ugly smile curled up the corners of his mouth. “To start.”
She shook her head and tried to back away. “No.”
“Don’t move.” One-Mile plucked her off her feet and lifted her against his chest.
She squealed. “Stop. Put me down. What are you doing?”
To start? “Making sure you don’t slice up your feet.”
As he walked back over the broken glass and carried her across the apartment, she steadied herself by looping her arms around his neck. “How did you find me? And how did you get inside?”
