Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 215412 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1077(@200wpm)___ 862(@250wpm)___ 718(@300wpm)
But the privacy? That’s new.
I walk the perimeter, inspecting. I don’t hate it. Not even a little. I’ve spent my life being watched and observed. By a psychopath. By my brothers.
And now Jag.
He did this. Probably planned it out while my hands were on his thigh. Maybe built it himself after I left last night.
The pleasure of it creeps in too fast, warm and unwelcome.
Anger follows.
Because privacy is currency. A bribe. A manipulation.
I back out of the room, heart thudding.
Declan prattles on about quality craftsmanship and aliens. I breeze past him, slam open the door to the break room, and pull up short.
I didn’t expect to find Jag in here. But there he is. Asleep on a shitty metal cot, shoved into the corner of the room like someone dumped him there after a hard night of partying.
He looks like a fallen statue of some war god left behind in the rubble. Completely nude except for a thin blanket slung low over his hips, barely covering anything worth hiding.
His massive frame twists awkwardly to fit the too-small mattress, legs dangling off the end, one arm draped over his washboard stomach, the other hanging limp to the floor. His chest rises slowly, all corded muscle and brutal lines. A body chiseled out of violence and left to cool.
Every inch of him is honed. No softness except his face, and even that’s a lie. Square jaw dusted with faint whiskers. Mouth slack in sleep. Shadows trace every ridge and groove, highlighting how perfectly designed he is to break people.
“Isn’t he magnificent?” Declan whispers, peering around my shoulder, gawking.
“No.” I push him backward and shut the door in his face.
Then, with a pulse full of piss and adrenaline, I cross the room and stop at the edge of the cot.
“Hey,” I snap, low and sharp.
Nothing.
“Wake the fuck up.”
Still nothing.
I kick the cot hard, and it screeches against the floor.
Jag jolts as if ripped from a nightmare, sitting up fast. Eyes wild, chest heaving, he stares at me, shocked.
I stare right back.
He blinks rapidly, and a bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Then he lifts the wrong hand.
The broken one.
His whole body seizes, and his jaw snaps shut so brutally I hear his teeth connect. No other sound leaves his mouth as pain crashes through his expression, flaring his nostrils and strangling a roar in his throat.
He swallows it down like it’s acid. But he can’t hide it. Not the tremble in his arm.
The hand is bloated and purple around the wrist, the bandages crusted with dried blood and construction dust. The unraveling gauze appears too tight in some places, loose in others.
He tries to flex his fingers, but they don’t move.
“What the hell did you do to it?” I growl.
“What time is it?”
“Time to go to the hospital.”
Falling back against the cot, he winces. “No hospitals.”
Of course not. He’s a walking felony. The ER would probably fingerprint him and set off a dozen alerts.
“Did you wash the tattoo?” I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to the family group chat.
“Been busy.”
“Busy building a room I don’t need?”
“You need it.”
“No, you need it.”
“You were out in the open.” He drags the blanket higher over his hips as if modesty suddenly matters. “No door or control over who walks in. Anyone could watch you work.”
How very possessive of him. He wants to be the only one allowed to look. The only one who gets access.
And I hate how that twists something inside me.
Part of me wants to shove him. Hard. Tell him I’m not his. That I don’t belong to anyone.
But another part, the quieter, hungrier part, wants to know what it feels like to be wanted like that. To be claimed without apology.
You can’t have it both ways.
“Don’t pretend this was a gallant sacrifice.” I shoot him a distrustful look. “You did it to seduce me with privacy. To have a claim on me. A room with your fingerprints on every wall.”
He exhales hard, sweat slicking his forehead.
Fever.
“Was it worth it?” I lick my lips. “Fucking up your hand to cage me?”
“You fucked up my hand, Strakh.” His mouth curls like he might say something cruel, but instead, he throws his good arm over his eyes. “There was a car last night. Tail lights on the ridge. Trailed you when you left town and again when you returned.”
“You watched us.” My spine stiffens.
“I always watch you.”
He’s not denying it. Not apologizing. Just tossing out the confession with no shame.
“Let me get this right.” My voice drops. “Last night, you stalked us, built a room with a fractured wrist, and passed out in the break room instead of going home?”
His eyes meet mine, clear now. Awake. “I don’t have a home.”
I breathe through my nose, trying not to react. Trying not to feel.