Page 65 of Moth to a Flame

Because he had his eyes on my Regan.

“Your brother bored me with the same question.”

He shifts in his chair. “No one will talk to me after that. They might not hurt me, but not having anyone to talk to is a nightmare.”

“Not my problem.” Fuck if I care about his miserable existence. “My problem is Lester. Your problem is me. You see where I’m going with this?”

He nods. I leave with a smirk on my face.

Justice tastes as sweet as Regan’s cunt, and I’m the lucky son of a bitch who gets to have them both.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Regan

For the second timethis week, I laugh. Not with my parents, but with my horror book club. I laugh. Me. I mean, really laugh. A sound that comes from my belly and rises in my throat. My sheer, unadulterated happiness must reach my eyes too. I’m tearing up.

Nothing’s weighing me down. No years-long burden and trauma that are always there in the back of my head, derailing every chance I have at joy.

Landon did this. Landon and his intense eyes and fierce soul have turned me into a carefree person. A woman who can see the funny side of life, who can laugh as her book club argues about gore and slashers.

I do. I laugh.

Lester’s shadow is finally gone.

Landon has chased him away. Mostly. I have a sneaking suspicion that I might have a nightmare again soon. But I’m not letting it get me down.

I’m ridiculously happy.

Rosemary, Deidra, and Teresa keep their banter while stealing glances my way. They can tell I’m different too.

I am. I had Landon’s cock down my throat and his mouth on my pussy just a few hours ago. I’ve had him—a man—soap my body, wash my hair, and help me choose my outfit for the day.

We agreed on a black, long-sleeved wrap top and a matching cardigan. It’s the pants that we couldn’t agree on.

I said I’d wear my black leggings.

Landon demanded that I wear a pair of jeans because he said he wanted a challenge. It would be that much harder for him to take them off than wrangling my leggings down my legs.

He promised it would be that much hotter.

When I told him I couldn’t walk outside and take the subway without concealing Jigsaw and that I wasn’t going to just shove it in the waistband of my jeans, his eyes turned dark.

Fuck riding the subway. You’re my woman, he said in a dangerously low voice.I’ll have a driver here to pick you up.

I got turned on from how bossy he was and said yes. A black town car waited outside our building at seven p.m. sharp.

That’s how much he cares. How much he’s adamant on keeping me safe and comfortable.

How much he understands me.

He could’ve dismissed my need to carry my gun with me. Could’ve explained that he trusted the driver and I was perfectly safe.

He didn’t. No. He respected me without any questions asked.

That’s hotter than his sculpted jaw. Than his thick, gorgeous hair. Sexier than the V-shaped muscle down his stomach and the light hair trail that leads to his equally hot cock.

I never imagined that being respected could be such a turn-on.

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