Page 53 of Wicked

“Harper.” Shephard’s deep voice cuts into the conversation.

Ryker lets me go. The men sandwich me. A flush heats my chest, neck, and cheeks. I’m certain everyone is staring. We’re smack dab in the middle of the room. I take Ryker’s and Shephard’s hands and insist we sit, pronto.

We take our seats. Ryker laces our fingers, and what comes automatically to him causes heat to fan across my face. My small hand clasped in a large one. Warm. Rough skin. Us skating round and round, his proximity waking up the sleeping butterflies in my belly.

Ryker brings our laced fingers to his mouth and presses a kiss on the top of my hand. Soft. Warm. Wet. He’s remembering too.

I long to close my eyes and cherish this moment. To forget the danger closing in on us. Forget I ever crossed paths with the wicked of the world.

But I have to be strong. Shephard coached and trained me for this moment. To show my enemy’s supporters I’m stronger than I look. That what Sam Taylor and his friends did doesn’t define me as a person.

Shephard watches us through hooded eyes. I feel the guys from across the room study us. We’re organisms on a petri dish. Will the three of us mate and procreate more organisms?

That’s the vibe I’m getting from the guys and from the curious looks we’re getting from the other diners. More so when Shephard moves his chair closer and saddles his arm across my shoulders, his fingers skimming over my skin, the heat from his fingertips sending tingles through me.

“How was your flight?” I ask Ryker, breathless.

What kind of game is Shephard playing? He hasn’t touched me like this since we lived together after my uncle died.

“Same as yours. Boring as fuck. Too long. Not enough food. I’m famished.”

This guy and his stomach. I smile, thoughts of my hell and heaven on earth with Shephard fading from my thoughts.

“How was your game?” I searched him online and watched past games he played.

Ryker Conway is destined to get picked in the first round of the NFL Draft for a reason. He is good. Like great good.

“We steamrolled over them forty to twenty-one.”

I grimace. “No mercy.”

“No mercy,” he repeats.

He reaches out and cradles my face. His touch is heat and fire. And the promise in the depths of his eyes? Hot and intense.

“And no mercy for you when I make you mine,” he murmurs over my mouth.

His words are soft. The diners near us can’t hear him. But Shephard discerns every heated, possessive word. Ryker brushes his lips over mine. Doesn’t take the kiss further. We pull apart. The side of my face tingles.

Shephard. I expect him to curse. To rear up, grab Ryker by his shirt, and stake his claim.

What he does next sends mixed messages to my heart, mind, and body. I’m hopeful. I’m scared. I’m turned on.

Chuckling, he reaches across the table, takes our clasped hands, and coasts his mouth over where our thumbs touch.

“She’s ours. She will always be ours. They want her? They’ll have her over our cold, dead bodies.”

And so begins the war of wills and dark desires.

Part Three

Desire. Lust. Obsession. Possession.

You are mine. I am yours.

Run and I will come after you.

Fight and I will hold you tight until the fight dies from you breath by breath.

---