Page 8 of Royally Embraced: RBMC

The visible veins on one side of her temple throbbed with each beat of her heart. “Shit, babe. You need me to get you something to drink?”

“No. I’m fine.” The lie rolled off her tongue, tasting bitter like the migraine pill she’d swallowed.

“You don’t look all that fine.” He held up his hands. “Don’t give me that look. You look like you’re in pain, even if you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.”

“Thanks. Um, you should probably get back to your duties.” Jesus, fuck. Why not just tell him to run along and be his criminal self?

His chin lifted, and his green eyes flashed. “There are no duties for me to run along to, Cara. Sorry if that disappoints you.”

She cocked her head to the side as he tipped his down, giving her a perfect view of his beautiful features in the low light ofthe office. Her hand itched to trace the arches of his brows. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. This man was not soft like the men she’d dated before.

“Listen, I’m not feeling up to par and am on my way out. You can ask Cian or one of the others if you need anything. Right now, I just want to go home and lie down.”

Dammit, this man drew her like a moth to the flame, even when her mind was screaming in agony. Fractured, shattered, broken into a million little pieces, like the little girl who’d lost everything. Vittoria Hardigan Masseria, the daughter of Cassandra and Paulo Hardigan, who, for all intents and purposes, was an orphan except for the stepfamily who saw her as a commodity to be bargained and sold. She needed to remember that men, like the one in front of her, were all cut from the same cloth. He would most likely jump at the first chance to alert the Masseria Family of her whereabouts if he were to find out her true identity.

“You have the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen. One minute, they’re like deep pools that I want to sink into, and the next, they reflect back at me as if hiding secrets. I only just met you, yet I want to unearth everything about you. My nonna would tell me some old wives' tale if she were here,” Jeter said. His voice was deep as he brushed his thumb over her temple and down along her jaw.

She needed to put some space between them. Her throat worked to swallow around the parched feel. The harsh feeling reminded her she hadn’t drunk anything with the migraine med she’d taken. His green eyes watched her like a hawk would its prey.

“You have no clue what you’re talking about. I’m literally an open book,” she lied. Nobody in her circle of friends or acquaintances knew about her past. They were aware she’d lost both her parents, but not the details. How the fuck do you tellpeople your mother married a mob boss and then she was killed? No, she refused to allow the memory to resurface.

“Forgive me and my intrusiveness. Most of my friends and brothers would tell you it’s out of character for me. Come on, let me walk you out to your vehicle at least.” Jeter took a step back, waving toward the doorway.

Her mind reeled with a thousand scenarios in her head. She desperately wanted to get away, but the overwhelming urge to be in his presence tugged at her. If he thought it was an old wives’ tale, telling him shit, then those same tales were whispering crap to her as well. Only she didn’t listen to their words since they were nonsense.

“You don’t have to do that. Honestly, I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time. Walking to my car is a piece of cake.” It was getting harder to keep from wincing from the overhead light in the office, though. If she didn’t get her ass out of there and in her car quickly, she’d need to call a cab to get her home. While she could typically function with a migraine, lights made it hard for her to see properly once the pain hit the terrible point.

JETER WANTED TO TELLher he wasn’t a fool, but the stubborn tilt of her cute chin reassured him she was ready to battle.

The moment Jeter followed the sexy bartender as she’d slipped away from the bar area, he knew something about her drew him. He’d noticed her distress and felt an overwhelming need to comfort her. Hell, that alone reminded him why being part of his brother’s lifestyle, his family's legacy, wasn’t his calling. Sure, he had done some shady shit that bordered on thegray side with the MC. They’d certainly killed, stolen shit, and done things that many would consider illegal or immoral.

In most people’s lives, there were black and gray, but in their world, there were different shades of gray. They had a code of honor, and they did things for a good damn reason. Sort of like modern-day Robin Hoods, only they didn’t wear tights and shit. An image of King or one of his MC brothers, wearing leotards and elf shoes brought a grin to his lips. No, they wore leather cuts, denim jeans, and shit-kickers. Some variations of the above, and sometimes, they dressed in button-down shirts with slacks for the ole’ ladies or special occasions. Unlike his biological brother Kendrick, who only dressed down on special occasions.

Waiting for her to turn and face him allowed him to study their surroundings. The office was large and neat, with bright lights overhead. A comfortable-looking leather sectional sat in one corner with a flatscreen television mounted on the wall. Across the room, he admired a large table that could easily seat twelve people.

The moment she’d pulled out the pill container, he wondered what drugs she was into. There was nothing more challenging than breaking a drug habit, especially when you had to be the one looking at yourself in the mirror every day. He saw plenty of junkies who could never kick the habit, even with the help and support of family and friends. Luckily, he didn’t have to wait too long before she spun, anger sparking in her gorgeous dark eyes. They shot pools of fire at him. Of course, he didn’t enjoy hearing the despair in her voice or seeing her in pain. Once he listened to her reason for taking the medication, his first thought was to offer help. Beautiful, stubborn woman. He could tell she had a guard up before he’d spoken.

“There’s no doubt that you’ve been taking care of yourself. Anyone with a pair of eyes can see that,” he rumbled. Fuck. Hecoughed, hoping she thought that was the reason his voice came out sounding like an asshole. “Humor me?” he asked.

Jeter stayed by the door where he’d moved; one arm extended toward her with the other reaching for the handle. He was a big man, so there was no way he could make himself less intimidating other than leaving the room and doing as she asked. Yet every instinct within him screamed for him to stay. He was not a suspicious man, unlike his brother who would’ve made the sign of the cross and tossed Tori over his shoulder before bundling her into his vehicle like it was an omen or some shit. No, he was a...a gentleman.Keep telling yourself that, Cowboy.

Chapter Five

Jeter refused to let himself think too hard about thewhyhe was standing in the office of a bar with a woman he barely knew acting like some knight in shining armor. He would count to ten in his mind, and if she didn’t step toward him, he’d walk out the door and do as she said. It had taken him years of being treated like a piece of shit in his family to learn when to walk away. Clearly, he needed to polish his walking skills.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Her low-spoken words jolted him out of his head. He snapped his chin down, trying to get a better look at her face. Where she was open, and if he were honest, angry at him before, now she looked strained. A lot more so than only minutes before. Migraines, he was aware of from his mother, could be debilitating.

She walked in front of him with her purse clutched in her hands. He noticed her knuckles were white with how hard she was gripping the leather within her fists. “You’re welcome, farfallina,” he whispered.

Tori paused with her shoulder nearly brushing his chest. “I’m more like a moth than a butterfly. You know, when a moth dies, they leave behind a flaky, dusty mess. That’s me, a complete and total disaster.”

He lifted his hand, unable to stop himself from touching her. “Mmm, moths are much older than butterflies, mia farfallina. In fact, there would be no butterfly without the moth. To be a moth is a much higher compliment than the other.”

“You’re weird, Jeter.” Tori leaned into the hand he’d pressed to her cheek.

Jeter didn’t care if she thought it odd that he knew weird, insignificant facts about moths. In truth, he had little details like that about a lot of things. He was the guy to call if anyone needed a partner for Trivial Pursuit. “By the way, the flaky mess moths leave aren’t flakes but tiny translucent scales that shed easily when exposed to friction. These scales are made from modified hairs—”

---