Page 17 of Savage Daddies

“With…?”

Her mouth closes.

“You can trust us.”

“Unimportant.” She hitches her hands up her chest and looks away. “My living arrangements are none of your concern.Yourarrangements on the other hand…”

“Are none ofyourconcern.” Wrangler waggles his brows.

“Funny,” scoffs Zoe. Her eyes wander around the room, taking in the wooden four-post bed with the ruby-red bedsheets, the nightstand holding a wide variety of flavored lube options, and the two drawers underneath. Her furrowed brow suggests she’s questioning their contents. Handcuffs, I know, take up occupancy in one of them. A couple of the women have chained me to the bed before, but now that this girl called Zoe has stepped into my life, I might finally be able to move on from the other girl who my mind, for almost four whole years, has been unwilling to drop.

Moving on from one heart-stopping woman to another.

What am I thinking? Nothing physical can escalate with this girl.

As she swipes a strand of hair from her eyes, I notice something. Something red on the inside of her wrist looks like it shouldn’t belong there.

A scald mark.

I’ve seen my enough of them to know.

I follow the hand down to her side, where it rests daintily on her waist. Her body distracts—maybe that’s her weapon. Her hips are the focus of my attention now, and the hourglass shape of her body. Her breasts, although covered, sit pert underneath the Chanel pantsuit that I want so badly to rip off. She could be a fashion influencer or something.

But people who wear luxury clothes are supposed to be happy.

Not miserable.

I focus my attention back on her wrists. Squint. Is that a quartz Cartier watch?

That still doesn’t capture my attention as much as the burn. Part of it snakes around onto her forearm. Whoever burned her intended to do so in a place where it could be covered.

Maybe she’s supposed to wear the watch on the other wrist to conceal the?—

“Burn.” The word leaps out of my mouth.

“What?”

“The burn on your wrist.”

“There’s no mark on my wrist.” Her hand clamps quickly around it.

“Yes, there is.”

“No, there’s?—”

I lunge forward and peel her other hand away, snapping a nail in the process.

But that doesn’t seem to bother her.

I flip over her arm and survey the nasty burn mark blotched across the inside of her wrist. It’s a few days old, and doesn’t appear angry.

What does anger me, though, is the expensive-looking diamond wedding ring on herringfinger. My fingers find their way to it. Damn, the temptation to rip it off and throw it away kills me.

She’s married.

To somebody made of money by the looks of it.

The other two’s heads turn, and we all examine the piece of jewelry, hoping there’s another explanation.

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