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After a solid minute, he pushes to his feet and rises like he’s going to challenge me. But I don’t flinch. I’ll never flinch again.
He walks past me, close enough for me to smell the vodka and cigarette aura that follows him around from dawn ‘til dusk.
He gets to the front door and pulls it open. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Sloan was right. Don’t come here again.”
“Your girl owes me money, Beckett.”
“I’ll pay it.”
He shakes his head and clicks his tongue against his teeth. “That’s not how it works.”
“Make it work that way. She’s through meeting you for your weekly blood tax.”
Another minute passes. Those dark eyes of his burn like dirty coal.
And then he’s gone.
He walks down to his motorcycle, loads up, and ships out.
Good fucking riddance.I shut the door and twist the lock.
“He’s gone?” I turn and Sloan is standing in the foyer behind me.
I nod. “Yeah. But I doubt it’s the last we’ll see of him. He’s not the kind of guy who goes away easy. Believe me, I’ve tried.”
“So have I.”
“Well, this is our house and what happens here is up to us.”
“Our house?” Her smile is slow and she says it again like she’s trying it on, but this time not as a question, but a statement. “Ourhouse.”
“Ourhome.” I hold out my arms. “Come here, Sloan. This is our house. Yours. Mine. Our baby’s. No one is going to bother us anymore. I’m going to make sure of it.”
She hesitates, and I wonder if she’s going to keep her distance. I hope not. I need her touch, her smell, her warmth, her reassurance.
Then, with a shy smile, she walks into my embrace. She nuzzles her chin against my chest and murmurs, “Thank you.”
I meant what I promised her: I’ll keep her safe.
No matter what it costs me in the end.
49
SLOAN
He’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Everything I want.
I go to him, and even though the space between us is only a few feet, it feels like I can’t get there fast enough. Every second of my life before this has brought me to this moment.
I slide my hands up his chest, luxuriating in the feel of all the muscle and sinew under my hands, the heat of his skin, the safety in his arms.
Beck smiles down at me. “One day, you're going to have my ring on your finger and my last name and every fucker out there is going to know that you're mine. My girl. My princess. My wife.”
“You'd tattoo your name on me if you could.”
He tilts his head and grins. “'Property of Beck Daniels.'You might be onto something. Tempting. Very tempting.”
“Just say the word,” I tease.
