Page 25 of Inked Adonis

Nova said something during one of our first text conversations that has stuck with me.Dogs who bark the loudest and bite the hardest are the ones who have been hurt the most.

Those are the words of someone who has been hurt before. I saw proof in the deep scar circling her wrist, in the silvery line across her hip that I traced while I was buried inside her, making her cry out my name like a prayer.

The sight of that awoke something dark and primitive in my chest. It made part of me—the part that makes good men cross the street when they see me coming—want to hunt down everyone who’s ever hurt her and paint Chicago’s streets red with their regrets.

“You’ve met the woman exactly twice,” Myles reminds me. “And judging from that look in your eye right now, you’ve banged her at least once.”

That was a secret I planned to keep, but Myles is my head of security for a reason. He has a way of seeing to the truth of things.

“What else were we going to do after getting out of our wet clothes?” I ask innocently.

Myles frowns. “Where were you?”

“Her place. Rogers Park.”

Myles nearly gives himself whiplash springing to his feet. “Rogers Park? As in, the same neighborhood where you met the fed?!”

“Purely coincidental.”

“You know damn well we can’t afford to believe in coincidences.” He purses up his lips. “Just let me run a background check on this woman. Just to be safe.”

It wouldn’t hurt. And yet, I find myself reluctant all the same. “Don’t bother. It’s a waste of resources.”

“Fuck me sideways,” he mutters in disbelief. “You actually like the girl.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I turn my back on him and stalk to the bar in the corner of the living room. If I’m going to have this conversation, I’d like to be at least halfway drunk. “We’ve texted a bit for the last few weeks. That’s it. She’s not a threat.”

“I bet you thought that about Katerina, too.”

I pour myself a bit more whiskey than I mean to. And my voice, when it emerges, is angrier than I meant for it to be. “I was eighteen when I met Katerina. She wasn’t always Satan in Louboutins.”

“I was around back then, in case you forgot. I was also the only one of the three of us not blinded by some early boobs and a gift for makeup. Trust me, brother: she always had horns and a pitchfork.”

I take a sip of whiskey. The burning liquid scorches on the way down, but it anchors me back into the moment.

Myles stands and leans against the bar, wearing his ‘intervention face.’ “Let me ask you this: are you planning on seeing this woman again?”

I’m tempted to say no, if only to bring this inquisition to a speedy conclusion. But lying would be the coward’s way out.

“Most likely.”

“You want a relationship with her?”

I grit my teeth. “You know I don’t do relationships. Not anymore.”

“That’s what I thought. But that was before you became penpals with a dog-walker from Roger’s Park. If you’re going to see her again, you need to?—”

“I don’tneedto do anything,” I snarl, surprising both of us with the intensity of my reaction. “I’ll see Nova for as long as I care to. Just because she’s not like the vapid actresses and anorexic models I used to date doesn’t mean this is any different. I don’t intend?—”

Whatever I may or may not have intended is left unsaid as the glass tumbler in my hand shatters. Shards dripping blood and whiskey rain down on the marble. Truth be told, I barely feel the sting. It’s a dim signal, lost amidst the surging bellow of possessive rage burning through my veins.

The blood leaking from the cuts is worth more than the liquor it mingles with. I’ve bled for empire, for family, for revenge. But bleeding for her? That’s new. That’s dangerous.

My body loathes the idea of Nova being just another woman I fuck and forget. She’s already crawled under my skin.

And that’s exactly why I need to stay the hell away from her.

I reduce my voice to a growl. “Careful, old friend. There are lines even you shouldn’t cross.”

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