Page 153 of Seek Me Darling

Bodhi’s laughter is wicked. “She’s still got fight. I’m proud of her.”

“Iwillstab you,” I mutter.

Matteo chuckles low, brushing dirt from my shoulder as we start walking back toward the house, like it’ll make any of this better. “You say that like it’s not exactly why I love you.”

I freeze mid-step. Just one heartbeat. One sharp intake of breath.

But he keeps walking, like he didn’t just drop that word like a loaded gun between us.

Bodhi arches a brow and grins. “Wellthat’sone way to ruin the afterglow.”

“I hate both of you,” I mutter.

“Ilovethat you said that right after he said he loved you,” Bodhi calls over his shoulder.

“I swear to God—”

“By the way, you’re walking like a drunk baby deer after a gangbang in the woods.”

“I willbiteyou before I stab you,” I say, limping after him.

He tosses a grin over his shoulder. “That’s not the threat you think it is.”

I scoff, but I’m too busy trying not to wince at the way my pants cling. Every step is uncomfortable. The material sticks in all the wrong places, tugging against swollen skin and fresh bruises, and I canfeeltheir come leaking from my pussy. It’s obscene. And frustrating. And distractingly hot.

We eventually reach the back door to the house, Bodhi ahead, Matteo brushing his fingers lightly down my spine as I stumble across the threshold.

Bodhi freezes in front of me, two steps inside. I don’t notice until I slam into the back of him.

Behind me, Matteo tenses. His hand lifts off my back.

Then, quietly, just above a breath: “Fuck.”

I blink past Bodhi’s shoulder.

Men.

Four of them. No—five. All armed.

I freeze.

One of them is leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of what looks like whiskey in his hand. He’s flanked by another with a gun held loosely at his side.

“Well,” the man says. “You’ve been busy,hijo.”

Bodhi doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then, with a voice that sounds suddenlyemotionless, he murmurs—

“Papá.”

Chapter 49

Seanna

“Welldon’tjuststandin the doorway,” Javier Reyes drawls, voice rich with casual menace, like a king hosting a dinner party in the middle of a war zone. “Come inside.”

His tone is smooth—cultured even—but there’s something underneath it. Something sharp and coiled. Like a serpent. He’s older than the last surveillance image we had, but age hasn't softened him. His suit was tailored to perfection, all charcoal silk and crisp white lines, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back from a face carved from control and charm.

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