Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25339 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
I can feel him watching me from across the room, his gaze like a hot hand against my body. I glance over to the bar, and sure enough, there he is. Leaning casually, like an Adonis statue, his broad shoulders showing through the torn fabric of his Henley. His blond hair hanging like golden vines across his face.
But even from here, I can see the dangerous glint in his eyes.
The glint that promises violence.
Why? Because Zane is talking to me.
Zane is one of the younger recruits, still not a full-fledged member of the Heartless Bastards. He’s not really doing anything wrong. He’s just chatting with me, asking me what my dad’s shop could do for a tune-up for his bike. But I can tell that Slate does not see it that way.
He sees it as another man infringing on his territory.
But as we’re technically not together tonight–having decided to keep our relationship on the downlow–he can’t exactly make a big scene.
But as Zane steps closer, just a little too close, Slate is suddenly right beside me, standing tall like an unbreakable wall of muscle and stoicism.
“You trying to ‘rizz’ this girl up, recruit?” he asks, his voice low and threatening. A clear warning that Zane does not pick up on.
“Relax, man.” Zane smirks. “I was just asking her about a tune-up.”
Slate doesn’t move a muscle. His eyes simply narrow, and a low-growl rises up from his chest. “Talk to her dad then. She’s not your mechanic.”
Finally, Zane gets it.
His smile fades, and his eyes flick to me before moving back to Slate. He raises his beer in a half-toast and nods. “Okay. Sure. No problem.” I hear him muttering a curse under his breath as he backs away, disappearing into the throng of the party.
“What the hell was that?” Slate snarls, turning to me, his jaw tight, lips twitching.
I pivot, crossing my arms in defiance. “What was what? He was just asking me about a tune-up.”
Slate leans in, grabs my wrist with his hand, and pulls me close. The heat of his body rages against me, and suddenly, I’m not thinking about Zane or the rest of the people in the room. All I can focus on is the fiery tension between us.
“You really think that’s why he was talking to you, Ivy?” he asks, his voice low. “Don’t tell me you’re that naïve.”
My rebellious nature flares. I want to argue, get into it with him. But at the same time, his possessiveness is a total turn-on. This big, hot, enormous man is marking his territory. He doesn’t want any other guy to even have a chance to hit on me.
Hot.
“Maybe I am.” I tilt my eyes so he knows I’m teasing. “Or maybe I just wanted to see how long you’d let him hit on me before you did something.”
Slate arches an eyebrow, a sly smile twisting across his lips. “You sassy little–”
Before he can finish, a stern voice cuts through the air.
“Slate.”
I know before I look.
Saxon, the leader of the Bastards. He’s glaring at us from a few feet away, his eyes hard and lips thin. He’s clearly pissed.
I know there’s a long history between these two, but I don’t know the details. But when Slate sighs and lets go of my arm, I can tell that this is not a conversation he’s looking forward to having.
“My office,” Slate says. “Now.”
Slate turns to me and whispers, “Be right back.” He smiles with his eyes. “Don’t let me catch you with anyone else. Understand?”
I smirk, fighting the urge to plant a kiss on his lips. “Gotcha.”
My stomach twists as I watch as he and Saxon walk to the office. It doesn’t take a fortune teller to figure out what this is about.
Me.
I knew it was a mistake to come here tonight. I tried to resist, but neither of us wanted to be away from the other, so we decided I’d just show up as Slate’s guest and do some mingling.
My encounter with Zane put an end to that plan.
I know I should stay where I am–try to just blend in and avoid any more conversations–but I can see Saxon and Slate through the office window, and I just can’t help myself.
I creep over, doing my best to look like I’m just walking casually, interested in the patches hanging from the wall. When I get closer, I can hear their voices through the thin wall.
“What did I say, Slate?” Saxon asks, clearly not happy. “Ivy is off-limits!”
My heart leaps. My pulse skyrockets. Slate doesn’t respond right away. The tension is like a knife sliding down my back.
“She’s not a child, Sax,” he finally replies, his voice steady and calm. “She can make her own decisions.”
“She’s Frank Calloway’s daughter!” Saxon snaps. “Frank works with us because he trusts us. You screw with her, you screw us all over, Slate.”