Page 93 of Moth to a Flame

“Later.” Without looking back, he reaches into the oven, clicking the button to turn it off. “We’re doing this now.”

“What did you get me?” He’s being mysterious and I have to know. “Books?”

“I thought you said you were going to finish the one we started for your book club before you get another one?”

My eyes widen, my mouth gaping dramatically. “This isn’t how it works. You saw my bookshelves.”

“I did.” A glint makes his dark eyes light up. “I saw your wish list too. Your currently empty wish list.”

He’s tricked me. Maybe it is books. “Landon.”

The fourth buzz causes a wall to slam over his amusement. He’s cold and scary and so very serious. “Upstairs. I’m not telling you again.”

He walks toward the door as I climb the stairs. I listen to him mumbling something and a man answering him, before the door slams shut with a loud bang.

His footsteps echo in the hallway of the second floor. Each one thunders, and I jump on the bed, lifting the covers higher over my body. On an impulse, my eyes scan the room for Jigsaw. It’s not here. I left it on the armchair where I was watching the ocean.

I’m so stupid. I’m so, very stupid.

“Regan.” Landon’s large frame looms in the doorway. He takes up the entire space with his size and energy and his harsh, probing gaze. “Take your shirt off.”

Most nights, when I wake up to his hot mouth on me or his cock inside of me, he offers reassurance. He tells me not to worry. That I shouldn’t be afraid.

He hasn’t said any of it so far.

“Take your shirt off.”

My gaze darts all over the room, and it’s then that I see there’s something in his hand.

“What’s in the box?” I’m too scared to hear what I’m saying until I do.

Brad Pitt’s famous line from the movieSeven.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Landon. “I haven’t ordered a severed head, if that’s what you’re asking. I’ll be the one removing that part of him personally.” He cocks his head, his blond hair falling to the side. “You’re being a very bad girl, disobeying me like that. Should I tie you up?”

“Landon.” I back up, taking the sheets with me. As if that’d help. Nothing comes between this man and what he wants. “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

“Shirt. Off.” He stalks toward the bed, dumping the box on it unceremoniously.

Not waiting for me to obey him, he turns and retreats to the bathroom, returning with his hands full of one pair of scissors, sterile gauze pads box, rubbing alcohol, and antiseptic cream.

And our black nail polish bottle.

Why?

Asking will only anger him further, so I don’t. In fact, I don’t move a muscle as he places them on the bed, next to the box.

“My love,” he growls, his voice rough. Commanding. My body heats and freezes as he comes over to my side of the bed, where I sit and look up at him like a prey would. Terrified. “I remember telling you to do something.”

When he reaches for the hem of my shirt, I finally submit to him. I raise my arms, letting him whip it off my body and throw it on the floor.

There’s a reason why he’s being like this. This dark. This aggressive.

There’s a reason, and I have to trust him.

I do trust him.

“Too long.” His hungry gaze roams down my bare breasts, to my lace underwear, then back up to my stomach. To the area above my navel. “You’ve been carrying these scars around for too fucking long.”

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