Page 57 of Marked

My warrior.

Moments later, he’s carrying me back to bed. I’ve been washed and my cuts have been tended to. A small bandage covers our initials.

“I’m going to clean up in the bathroom. When I’m done, you need to be dressed so you can eat what I brought for you.”

“You’re being bossy, Zack,” I say, leaning back against the pillows.

He touches the bandage covering our initials.

“You’re mine now, little bird.”

He walks back to the bathroom.

You’re mine now.

I’ve never been so thrilled.

Harley stands at the kitchen island with a greeting card in her hand.

She hands the card to me. “Who’re Brian and Abigail?”

I read the thank you note quickly.

Thanks for the use of the place. Happy Hunting!

Love, Abigail and Brian.

“Friends.” I put the card down.

“This place belongs to you? You own it?” She pushes a hip into the island as I walk away to the fridge and grab a bottle of water.

“I do.” I take a long drink of the cool water, while my eyes devour the deliciousness of her in my kitchen. I don’t use the place often. Chicago isn’t my favorite city, but sometimes I need a place to let things cool where no one knows who I am, and I can blend into the craziness.

“This bunch of roses.” She picks up the card again, and points to the black and red roses embossed on the top of the stationary card. “You have the same tattoo on your chest.”

I swallow another gulp of crisp water.

“That’s right. I do.”

“What does it mean?” She eyes the handwriting on the card. Abigail wrote it, I can tell by the elegant script.

“It’s the symbol for the group I work with.” It’s the easiest way to explain it. “Sort of like a hunting club.” I half smile.

“I thought you said you were a Marine before.”

I nod, screwing the cap on the bottle. She’s been given a blow. Everything is going to come into question until she finds her solid footing again.

“That’s right. I was. Now I work with a different sort of organization.”

“Doing what? I mean, how can you afford a place like this?” She folds her arms over her stomach, propping up her breasts. A bandage covers my artwork. Our initials. Hers plus mine.

There’s no question now.

She and I belong to each other.

“I told you what I do, Harley.” I slide along the island until I’m right in front of her.

“How does that translate into a penthouse on Michigan Avenue?” She’s getting more demanding in her questions.

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