Page 52 of Savage Heart

“Keep watch. The doctor can’t stay inside forever; eventually she’ll need to return to work.”

Oleg hummed, leaning in as if to tell Danil something exciting.

“What about the kid? We grab her, the doctor mom and the biker dad will do whatever you want them to do.”

Danil had thought of that already, but he knew that taking the kid would only incite the MC faster and more ferociously than if he took the doctor. The doctor was under their protection, yes, but she had no other ties to the club. She and the VP—from what his spies had observed—barely spoke to one another. Yes, they’d want her returned, but they wouldn’t burn down the city to get her back. But the kid, being the VP’s spawn,taking her would be like throwing a match on petrol-soaked pile of rags—the explosion would be catastrophic to his plans.

No, he didn’t want things to get so loud that Leonid started looking a little closer. The less noise he made in Vegas, the more time Danil had to finish putting his plans into place. And the good doctor was a key piece.

She thought she was safe with the biker, but there were other ways for him to get to his prey.

Liz couldn’t believe her eyes.

Trouble’s house was…beautiful!

And she and Erika were living there for however long it took Trouble to deal with the Russian threat.

Maybe two days—

Maybe forever!

Liz bit her lip to shut that thought right the fuck up. No matter how yummy Trouble looked, nor how many times he made her think of when they were once together, the man she knew now was not the same man she fell in love with…becausethatman didn’t exist.

And she had to remember that.

That afternoon, after Tessa and nurse Janine helped her dress, Trouble and strolled into the room, a victorious smirk on his gorgeous face—a face with profanely sexy lips and sparkling green eyes, both of which made her belly flutter. Angry at her own reaction to seeing him, she’d wanted to smack that smirk right off, but something told her that he’d enjoy that too much, the asshole. So, instead, she’d glowered at him, barked that shewas ready to go, then glowered some more when he grinned down at her from where he was pushing her wheelchair down the corridors to the entrance, where he said his “cage” was waiting.

Trouble was gentle as he helped her into his truck, his large hand gripping her arm, the other spanning her hip and her waist. The heat from his palm, and the brushing of her fingers over her body, turned those flutters from earlier into Olympic gymnasts, tumbling and flipping through her like they were doing a floor routineen masse. She didn’t need to look to know his smirk was wider, she could practicallyfeelhis arrogant mirth—he liked how he was affecting her! Then he was solicitous as he drove them out of the hospital parking lot, making sure she was comfortable in her seat before he even put it in drive. She didn’t miss that he often cast a glance at the rearview and side mirrors, probably watching to see if they were being followed. And when he wasn’t glancing into the mirrors, he was casting his glance her way, as though he were making sure she was really there or not tensing to throw herself from a moving vehicle—and she didn’t know what to make of how white his knuckles were. Was it the tension from the possibility of being followed? Or something else?

He’d even offered to order Gino’s pizza and pick it up on their way through town, but she—gasp!—told him no. Not surprisingly, she wasn’t all that hungry; her anxiety levels were making her stomach revolt at the idea of cheese and greasy pepperoni—no matter how good it would taste going down, it wouldn’t taste nearly as good coming up.

Being trapped with Trouble in the enclosed cabin of his massive Ram truck was a study in how to breathe without inhaling—because the cabin was filled with the scent of leather, bergamot, and rich whiskey. Trouble’s scent hadn’t changed in ten years; it still had the ability to make her mouth water,her breasts swell, and her pussy throb. Back when they were together, it took one whiff of him for her to salivate for a bite of him, like Pavlov’s dog, ravenous for a taste of what smelled so fucking good.

Now, though, that scent was so heavy in the air between them—just like the tense silence—she couldn’t take a breath. She wanted to open the window, but she knew the asshole would guess why—he’d always been more perceptive than the average man. She assumed it was something he’d picked up during his years in the Army; one had to be perceptive, intuitive, and aware to survive mostly unscathed in enemy lands.

Enemy lands…like his house, where she was staying with her daughter.

Blinking out through the windshield, Liz took in the house once again.

It was a single-story, single-family home, in one of the older neighborhoods. There was a short driveway that led from the main road, that ended at a two-car garage, but Trouble didn’t park in there.

“What do you think?” he asked. There was a tautness to his voice that told her he was worried. About what she thought of his house? “It isn’t much—”

She shook her head. “No, no,” she blurted, an unreasonable need to assuage his concerns rising so quickly and strongly, her hand automatically reached for his forearm, which was pressed against the wheel. His flesh was warm and smooth beneath her touch. She didn’t pull away…and neither did he. Her body filled with something…warm, when she noticed the tension in his body loosening, just a tad, under her hand. She refused to wonder about that warming sensation, since she wasn’t supposed to care about him. With that thought in mind, she snatched her hand back, ignoring the twinge in her side at her careless movements. Immediately, his lost tension returned. Shecleared her throat. “It looks great, Trouble. Honestly, it’s better than I thought it would be.”

Despite the tension in his large, rock-hard body, Trouble’s eyes danced, and he smirked once again. “Were you picturin’ a shack?”

She snorted, rolling her eyes dramatically. “No, but I wasn’t picturing this, either. I don’t know, I figured a single guy who spends most of his time at a biker clubhouse wouldn’t really…you know…have ahouse. I figured you’d have a crash pad in an apartment complex or something.”

His lips pursed like he wanted to say something, but he just gently shook his head, exhaling on a sigh.

“I get that; a single man rarely needs a house; a crash pad is more than good enoughfor most,” he admitted carefully, his eyes losing a bit of their sparkle. Liz didn’t miss the “for most” part, and wondered what sethimapart from “most.” Trouble cleared his throat, then there was a moment of heady silence before he continued. “I bought this place six years ago as in investment. It was an old meth house the city condemned back when they were crackin’ down on drug dens. I got it for way under market value, and then pumped some money, and blood, sweat, and tears into it. It ain’t fancy like your condo, but it’s good enough for me…and my family.” His gaze was pinned to her, penetrating, the bright green darkened to a pine—deep, fathomless, and breathtaking, like a sudden plunge into haunted woods. And it wasn’t just the color that arrested her lungs, it was also the emotion she saw within them.

There, in the depths of his green, green eyes…she saw yearning.

Swallowing, she ignored what he’d said about “his family,” choosing to putthatconversation off for as long as possible. She forced a smile, and gazed at the house once more.

“Well, let’s see it,” she declared with an enthusiasm she didn’t feel.

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