Page 24 of Corrupted Tyrant

As I tuck her to my chest and carry her to her hotel room, I hum an Elvis tune under my breath: “Wise men say only fools rush in…”

But I’m starting to think that when it comes to Candy? I just ‘Can’t Help Falling in Love.’

Chapter Seventeen

Candy

The lingering taste of bourbon maple syrup from dinner dances on my tongue as I kick off my shoes and lie on the hotel bed, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Today was… magical. Like something out of a movie or a fairy tale. Just me and Courage, exploring, laughing, and forgetting about the shadows that have been dogging our steps.

And that moment in the Jungle Room… My heart flutters at the memory of his piercing blue eyes locked with mine, the connection that crackled between us. The way his gaze dipped to my lips, just for a second, before the spell was broken.

I groan, burying my face in a pillow. What am I doing? Falling for my bodyguard, my protector, is the definition of a bad idea. It’s unprofessional, it’s complicated, it’s…

It’s everything I want. Everything I didn’t even know I needed until he walked into my life with his fangs and his fur and his quiet supportive strength.

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling, my fingers drifting to my lips. I can still feel the ghost of his kiss from that night in his room, the way his mouth molded to mine, soft and firm and hungry all at once. The way his tongue teased the seam of my lips, requesting entrance. My body electrifies as I recall every touch, every soft moan, every arousing nip and lick.

Shaking my head, I sit up. I can’t think like this. Can’t let myself get carried away by fantasies and what-ifs. Courage is here to do a job, to keep me safe from myself, as well as the threats that lurk in the shadows of my past. Anything more is just asking for trouble.

As I swing my legs over the side of the bed, a sound drifts through the wall, soft and ethereal. At first, I think I’m imagining it, my overactive brain conjuring up a soundtrack to my lovesick musings. But as I tilt my head, straining to hear, I realize it’s real.

Music. Hauntingly beautiful, played on some kind of flute or pipe.

And it’s coming from next door. Courage’s room.

My breath catches as I picture him, his lips pursed around the mouthpiece, his fingers dancing over the holes. Those strong, calloused fingers that have brushed against my skin a dozen times, leaving sparks in their wake.

Before I can second-guess myself, I’m on my feet, padding down the hallway and standing outside his room. My hand hovers over the knob, my heart pounding a tribal beat against my ribs.

This is a bad idea. I should turn around, crawl back into bed, and forget I ever heard this siren song calling me to the rocks.

But I’ve never been one to shy away from bad ideas. And something about that melody, mournful and hopeful all at once, tells me this might be worth the risk.

I knock softly, the music cutting off abruptly. For a moment, there’s only silence, heavy with anticipation. Then the door swings open and there he is, his hair freshly washed and still tousled. He’s shirtless as he always is unless we’re in public when he wears a hoodie, and his eyes are wide with surprise.

“Candy.” My name is a rumble on his lips, warm and rough like whiskey poured over gravel. “Is everything okay?”

“I heard you playing,” I blurt, my cheeks flushing. “It was beautiful.”

He ducks his head, a rare show of shyness. “It’s something I do to unwind. Clear my head.”

“I didn’t know you were musical.” I step closer, catching a whiff of his scent—clean air and summer sun.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, rock star.” His lips quirk, more than a hint of fang glinting in the low light.

“So, play for me.” The words are out before I can call them back, hanging in the air between us like a challenge. Or an invitation.

He hesitates, his gaze searching mine. For a heartbeat, I’m sure he’ll refuse, shut the door on this fragile moment. But then he steps back, motioning me inside with a tip of his head.

“One song,” he warns, his voice a low rumble that causes warmth and need to coil in my belly. “Then you need to rest. Big day tomorrow. Playing in Nashville isn’t New-York-big, but it’s big, rock star.”

“One song,” I agree, already knowing it won’t be enough. That I could listen to him play all night and never tire of it.

He settles onto the edge of the bed, the flute cradled in his large hands. It looks delicate, almost fragile, against his rough palms and thick fingers. But as he lifts it to his lips, as the first haunting notes fill the air, I realize it’s the perfect instrument for him.

There’s a strength to his playing, a surety and a passion that belie the gentleness of his touch. He coaxes the melody from the instrument like it’s a part of him, an extension of his very soul.

My mind flashes me pictures of him playing on An’Wa, not that I have any idea what that place was like. But I see him anyway, in a lush, fragrant forest, playing his music for the furry woodland creatures. I close my eyes and imagine him playing for me there, on a patch of soft, green moss.

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