Page 69 of Born for Lace

Brute.

With a sigh, I curl into him, pretending that he isn’t a huge, mean Xin De male and, instead—a friend.

I can feel his heartbeat beside my cheek, its thrumming soothes me, drumming affection into me whether I want it or not.

His thighs are stone beneath me, his stature just as solid around me, and I can tell he is absorbing the jerky movements of the truck so that I’m not thrown around.

“Thank you,” I whisper, honestly, but secretly hope he doesn’t hear.

Then his heart speeds up beside my ear. And I think he tilts his head, his lips meeting my hair. It’s subtle. I’m not sure it happens. If it did, it’s probably because he hates my appreciation.

That would mean he is gentle. It would mean he cares about me.

You care, Lagos.

ChapterTwenty-One

Dahlia

A peculiar sight emerges on the silvery belt ahead.

As we near it, I make out the shape. A building—a roadhouse of sorts—a dot of eerie civilisation set against the hazy highway.

The rumble of various engines permeates the air as we pull alongside a row of mismatched motor vehicles.

All made with madness.

Salvaged parts and faded paintwork, horns curling from the large front lights, pipes cracking.

Preparing, I pull my mask up to cover my nose and mouth. I try to open the door, but the pressure of the wind wrestles with me. “How do?—”

Lagos pushes it open.

I close my eyes as the sand whips inside the vehicle.

Lagos stands with Spero and me in his arms and walks us through the Redwind to the porch, his legs unfaltering, stature pressing through the dense atmosphere.

The howl of a turbine reminds me that they are all around us, but I can’t see them anymore.

The weathered brick walls bear scars, chips, and cracks from the cruel gale but protest the damage by remaining robust.

And lively.

Walking into the derelict roadhouse, I see girls scantily dressed in worn stockings and ill-fitted corsets. I understand why Tomar was reluctant to stop here. It wasn’t because he didn’t want to stop early, but that he didn’t want to stop… here.

Lagos thumps over to a long bar that runs the entire length of the room, a flock of women already on his heels. Hands slide down his back, stroke his spine, desperate for his attention.

“Hey, big boy.”

“Wemissedyou.”

Too focused on the petite hand on Lagos’ shoulder, I startle when the old door slams behind me, shutting the howling and gale outside.

The bar falls quiet.

Spero gurgles in my arms.

It’s dim here, shadows and shapes scattered around, and the slow dancing of smoke from lit cigarettes becomes flags above each figure.

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