Page 25 of Guarded By the Phantom

“Or what?” she asked, her voice eerily calm. I couldn’t assess her expression properly with her eyes covered. “You’ll throw a knife at me, too?”

Now, that was unfair. I gritted my teeth and came over, grabbing her wrist.

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m on your side. Now listen to Daddy and hop on my bike, will you? We’ve been exposed long enough.”

She made a choking sound and let me drag her to my ride. I made her lean back against the side of it and hid her from view, a helmet in my hand, while she took off her cap and sunglasses. She was tense, her knuckles white where they gripped her cap. Unhappy, scared, uncomfortable—she was probably all three, and I couldn’t shake the feeling at least some of that was my fault.

Something wrenched in my chest, and I observed the unfamiliar sensation with alarm. It was like worms were squirming in there, crawling all over my heart and making me want to… do things.

Not used to denying myself, I gave in to the instinct.

“Don’t be afraid of me, okay? It was a joke. I wouldn’t have hurt her, since she was no danger. And I won’t hurt you. You have my word,” I said, hating the fact I explained myself. Ineverdid that.

Except for now. Because for some fucked up reason, I wanted her to feel safe.

And even worse—I wanted her tolikeme. She never would, of course. I was a black panther with a mental disorder and she was some sort of pedigree kitten wearing a diamond collar and a pink bow. We’d never fit.

When she raised her big, vulnerable eyes to my face, I felt her gaze like a physical touch. It fucking tingled, and not just in my facial area, but everywhere. Hating that I reacted to her so strongly, I shoved the helmet on her head without warning. She squeaked in outrage, but I didn’t care.

There. Her big blue eyes couldn’t hurt me now.

The moment she sat behind me, her hands tentatively holding my middle, I disassociated hard. My psychiatrist calledit a suboptimal coping mechanism and encouraged me to embrace mindfulness instead, but fuck, if I focused on those thighs bracketing my hips and the fact we wereridingtogether—get it?—I’d break my word. I promised the girl no boners on the ride.

Besides, disassociation worked. I did it ever since that Mexican cult tried to burn me on the stake when I was nine. As the flames licked up my armor, I picked faces out of the crowd whenever the smoke shifted enough to let me see and imagined all the ways I would slaughter them after I got free. That way, I almost forgot about the pain.

I even managed to laugh, which freaked my persecutors right out.

Now, I thought about all the ways I would deal with Barbara’s mind manipulator when I got him. Deepthroating him with a red-hot poker was my current favorite, but I had trouble finding a believable excuse for doing that to put in my report.

He tripped and fell on it, I swear on my balls.

Maybe I’d kidnap him, do what I wanted, and pretend he disappeared? Fatima would know, but then, she needed me. She’d let it slide. Probably.

Barbara pressed closer, making a soft, scared sound in the back of her throat when I leaned into a sharp curve. My disassociating fantasies scattered, and I was plunged into the hideously uncomfortable reality of having this warm, gorgeously smelling female pressed to my back. Damn, she felt good.

“The library,” I gritted out, stopping in a free parking place. “Off the bike, doll.”

I counted pokers in my mind while she clumsily got off, her body shifting and sliding against mine.One hot poker in the mouth, two hot pokers in the eyes, three hot pokers in the ass, four hot pokers…

“Finally,” I muttered when she stepped away, hastily taking the helmet off. She pushed the sunglasses onto her face and pulled her cap low, avoiding my eyes. Her cheeks were red, hands clenched, and she seemed very uncomfortable.

Good. That made two of us.

“Thank you for the ride,” she choked out, already heading for the front door.

I bit my tongue to keep myself from saying she shouldn’t thank me until I rode herproperly.

“So let me get this straight,” I said while we entered through the wide glass doors and Barbara stopped, looking around uncertainly. “You don’t want your mother to know about this little trip to the library. But why? Does she think that, I don’t know, libraries are the dens of iniquity or something?”

She turned to me, the corner of her mouth lifting briefly. “Dens of iniquity. I like that—but no. She simply believes reading doesn’t suit my image. If she knew I came here, she’d realize I’m trying to grow a backbone. She’d nip it in the bud. Or send me away. I’m not strong enough to deal with it right now.”

Her expression fell, and she rolled her shoulders back, straightening. She hesitated for a moment before she took off her sunglasses, though the cap stayed on. I said nothing, watching as she approached the help desk, inquiring politely about accessing a certain book she found in the library’s catalog online.

Her manner was decidedly different from when she dealt with me, and even though the librarian manning the desk was nothing special, just a nerd in his late twenties wearing a knitted vest, I felt a stab of jealousy when she gave him a radiant, photoshoot-ready smile. His face lit up with delight, and I could tell at once he thought she was into him. And hell, maybe she was.

She never smiled like that atme.It was beyond alarming that I cared.

While Barbara listened to the librarian’s eager instructions, I texted my psychiatrist.

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