Page 18 of Pay the Price

Still, I was anxious about going back to work, and the warm weather and sunny skies did nothing to calm my nerves. I took deep calming breaths as I made my way down Main Street andwas half a block from Cantwell when I spotted a bike parked next to the curb across the street.

That part wasn’t unusual — between the Blades, the Barbarians, and the out-of-town MCs that took day trips upstate when the weather was nice, motorcycles were everywhere.

It was the man straddling the bike that got my attention: the dark hair, still short from prison, his jaw set in a familiar angry line, tattoos snaking across sculpted biceps from under the sleeves of his black T-shirt.

It was Jace, and he was parked across the street from Cantwell, not even trying to hide the fact that he was watching me.

I hated the way my body responded, the way my pulse raced and my heart beat faster, all the blood rushing between my thighs. Worst of all were the feelings that swelled in my chest: happiness and relief and longing and sadness.

The sadness was the worst. It meant I cared about Jace, that even though he’d been a monumental asshole, I was sorry that he’d really killed Blake, that whatever might have been between us had ended before it had really begun.

It pissed me off that he’d wormed his way into my heart, although I didn’t know if I was more mad at him or myself.

I didn’t take the time to analyze the feeling. Instead I used it to propel me across the street, almost empty since it was morning and everyone walked downtown rather than driving.

He didn’t move as I approached, didn’t even have the good manners to look embarrassed by the fact that he’d been caught watching me.

“What exactly are you doing?” I demanded.

And fuck me, it was worse seeing him up close and personal. His skin was tan, like he’d been spending a lot of time outdoors, and the muscles on his massive arms bulged even though he was resting his hands on his denim-clad thighs. They strained thefabric of his jeans, slivers of skin visible where the denim was ripped, and I had to force myself to keep from staring at his dick, the bulge all too visible as he straddled the bike.

His green eyes appraised me from head to toe, taking in my conservative clothes, dug out from the boxes Calvin had sent to the house before my kidnapping.

I was suddenly self-conscious in my conservative pencil skirt, my blouse buttoned almost all the way to my neck, my heels low. I’d been upset when I’d left the house, hadn’t wanted to take the clothes Jace had chosen for me, a reminder of our first day together that should have been annoying but had somewhat become funny through the rose-tinted glasses of nostalgia.

Now I realized that my old clothes felt unfamiliar and confining, like stepping into a costume for a part I no longer played.

He sneered. “Back to playing the good girl, I see.”

My cheeks heated. “Lucky for me, I don’t have to follow your stupid rules anymore.”

He stared me down. “It was for your own good.”

I had no idea what he meant, but I wasn’t going to stand on the street and debate whether or not Jace Kane’s juvenile game had been “for my own good.”

“Sounds like something an abusive asshole would say.” I hated the storm of emotion that twisted through my body while standing just a couple of feet from said stupid asshole, so I did my best to make my voice hard and cold. “What are you doing here?”

“Watching you,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re too spoiled and too naive to know you’re not out of danger yet.”

I was almost grateful for the insult. It stoked the embers of my hatred, always burning, red-hot, under my lust and all theother embarrassing emotions I felt for Jace Kane. “Somehow ‘spoiled’ isn’t the word that comes to mind after being held prisoner for two weeks. You can probably nix naive too, since the person who held me captive was my own father.”

“You’re out here, walking around like you don’t have a care in the world, which makes it pretty clear you’re spoiled enough to think no one else can hurt you and naive enough to think they don’t want to,” he said.

“I think my dad made his point,” I said. “And I don’t appreciate you stalking me.”

“I don’t remember asking your permission,” he said. “Princess.”

My blood started to boil. “So you’re just going to follow me around?”

“If that’s what it takes,” he said.

“If that’s what it takes to do what?” I felt like I was missing a critical piece of the picture.

“To keep you alive,” he said.

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