Page 49 of Savage Rule

“What makes you so sure?”

“Well, they could have left you in a dumpster. But they put you somewhere they knew you’d be safe and gave you a name. So whatever the reason for leaving you, it had to be love. And it means they might still be out there, loving you.” The sadness in her tone strikes me more than the words.

“I never thought about it that way.” I narrow my eyes. “Guess I should feel lucky about that.”

“You should.” She drops her head onto my chest and squeezes tight. “Please take me home now.”

15

GUNN

“You brought me toyourhome,” Scarlet says, arching a brow. “Is it safe?”

“As safe as your place.” I take her up to the second floor of the converted firehouse I live in. We step inside and I turn on the lamp on the entryway table. “It’s not much, but I like it.”

“Not much?” She walks around the space, that while narrow, feels open because of the floor to ceiling windows. “This place is fucking awesome!”

Just like she did at the orphanage, she touches everything in her path— the butcher-block countertop in the kitchen, the bookshelf I made myself and the die cast motorcycles on the shelves.

She goes to the bed placed near the windows and runs her hands over the patchwork quilt Luca’s mother gave me years ago. “It’s real nice. Smells like you.”

“Is that a good thing?” I go to her and she turns to me.

As if she’s been doing it for years, she wraps her arms around my waist and pressing her face against my chest, she inhales. “It’s such a good thing.”

I breathe her in too, burying my nose in her soft hair. Her scent isn’t just intoxicating on a sexual level. It’s become as familiar as this place. Maybe that’s why I brought her here. I want my home to smell like her.

It’s a disturbing thought on so many levels. Wrong because deep down, I know this is temporary. She will have to leave and her scent will fade. But the memory will linger.

“I rent the place upstairs to a dude that hates being bothered,” I say, needing to change the direction my mind is headed. “We never see each other. I like that.”

“And downstairs?”

“Didn’t change a thing about the garage.” I tug her away so that she can see the fire pole. “You want to check it out?”

“No way!” She releases me, her giddiness at sliding down infectious. Peering through the circular opening, she squeals. “I’ve always wanted to do this.”

“What’s stopping you?”

Grabbing hold with both hands, she wraps her legs around the metal pole and descends. The sensors are triggered, and the lights automatically come on.

By the time I drop to the first floor, she’s already checking out my collection of antique bikes.

“What, the old firetruck doesn’t do it for you?” I point the 1940s Mack Pumper.

Almost sensually, she slides her hands over the leather seat of my 1962 Indian motorcycle. Sheer mischief written all over her face, her lips pulled up coyly, she says, “I love these so much more. Oh my God, is that a Vincent Black Shadow?” She rushes to the bike I bought last year.

“It is. 1950.”

“And a Ninja!” She runs to that one, her eyes wide. “It looks just like my old one. The one you wrecked.”

Ignoring the jab, I say, “You like bikes.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She moves on to the next, a Harley Knucklehead.

“That’s the first one I restored,” I say proudly.

Crouching, she appreciatively studies the red finish. “You did this?”

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