Page 38 of Mastered By Lust

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Gage

I force myself to stand next to the large picture windows in the living room. The rain started up again after a brief break. I don’t like Leah being out there on the road. Southern California drivers lose their minds at the slightest hint of precipitation—they either drive recklessly as if there’s no danger, or they drive too slow. The mixture of behavior is where the risk lies.

I want to go out and search for Leah. I want to put her in my much-safer, newer car. I’d buckle her in, make sure the heaters were blasting if she was wet from the rain.

I wonder how she would respond to a new car as a gift…but I don’t want to frighten her away.

Just the same, I grab my phone and start researching vehicle safety features. She may let me buy her a car at some point, and I want to get her the best and safest one available.

The door to the penthouse opens. Leah steps in, soaked and shivering. Her cheeks are so pale, she looks ghostly.

I drop my phone on the nearest table. Crossing the room, I gather a blanket from the sofa, wrapping it around her. That won’t do much good, though—her clothes are the problem.

“Let’s get you changed, baby girl.”

“Th-thanks.” Her teeth are chattering.

I take her bag, which is drier than the rest of her. She must have been shielding it with her body during the worst of the rain.

Her hands are in fists as I lead her to her room and get a change of clothes. I help her peel out of her jeans and shirt, then I dry her with the soft blanket. Goosebumps prickle every inch of her skin. A thudding need convulses in my chest—a need to fix this, to make it right, to make Leah comfortable.

I help her into a soft T-shirt and sweatpants. Her left hand is still in a fist. I rub it between my hands, trying to warm her cold skin.

She stiffens up, muscles rigid, eyes wary.

I step back to give her space, but I keep her hand in mine. “Baby, are you okay?”

Slowly, she unclasps her fist. A Tagger rests in her palm. I recognize the top-of-the-line tracking device because it’s the same brand I put in my luggage on the rare occasions I travel.

Frowning, I ask, “Where’d you get that?”

“Behind my car’s license plate.”

Blinding worry. Rage. My muscles tense. Who’s tracking my little girl? I check my emotions so I don’t frighten her. “I assume you didn’t put it there yourself. Do you know where it came from?”

“No, I saw a white car. It kept ending up where I was today, but I didn’t recognize it. It could be a hired car. It could be anyone.” Her gaze shifts to the side, away from my face.

“Anyone.”

She nods, but doesn’t meet my eyes. Her cheeks flush delicately.

“You thinkIwould track you.” It’s a statement, not a question. Leah doesn’t trust me.

Her blush deepens. “I’m sorry, it’s not that. I know it’s not you. It’s just…I don’t know who else would have reason to. And a few nights ago, you said all that stuff about being obsessed.”

She’s right—I did say those things. And I meant them. But I would never place a Tagger on her car without her knowledge.

She continues, “Unless things aren’t over with the loan sharks. Maybe the Wentzes have friends who are mad at me?”

“I suppose that’s possible.” There’s another glaring possibility—one that I’m reluctant to mention. “Could it be Dmitri?”

“It’s not his car, and he can’t afford to hire someone to tail me.”

Unspoken is the knowledge that I could afford to hire someone. I want to rage at the injustice of her suspicion, but I understand it.

“Here.” I hold out my hand.

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