Page 99 of Bittersweet Revenge
The games continue until about ten when I want my man back, so I drag Dean upstairs with me.
“I need a haircut.” He runs a hand over his head.
“Sit down. I’ll do it.”
He nods, stripping out of his clothes, then closing the toilet lid and taking a seat.
I take the electric shaver out of the cabinet, oil it, and add the attachment for the length he keeps. The familiarbuzzfills the bathroom as I take the first swipe over his head, watching the brown hair fall to the floor. There’s something really fucking hot and intimate about doing this for him, about grooming what’s mine.
I stand between his legs, Dean’s hands on my hips, under my clothes, his thumbs rubbing over my hips and making my cock rise to attention. We both ignore it as I continue cutting his hair. The only time he lets go is when he has to turn around so I can clean up his nape and make sure the line is straight.
“Thank you,” Dean says.
“I did it for me. I like it.”
“I meant for everything. Tonight. Me being here.” It’s the closest he’s come to mentioning my father. It doesn’t take a genius to read through the lines. He’s thanking me for the fact that he’s still here, with us, with me. That he’s still mine despite everything.
I turn off the razor and set it on the counter. “You might not be saying that if you knew I won’t ever let you leave.”
He turns around, giving me a small smile. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
“Oh, I can keep them, all right. And I will.”
I kiss him, then turn the shower on. Dean sweeps up the hair, and then we step into the stall together. We wash up and jerk each other off before stumbling naked to bed together.
“Are we startingTo the Lighthouse?” Dean asks, picking up the Virginia Woolf book from the nightstand.
“It was your turn to choose,” I say.
Dean nods, opens to the first page, and starts to read.
I pull him close, close my eyes, and focus on nothing but him.
*
Something is off.
Dean is passed out beside me, but I haven’t been able to sleep all night. I can’t explain how I feel or why…just know something is off. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to trust my gut.
As quietly as possible, I roll out of bed and tug on a pair of underwear. I don’t make a sound as I walk to the window and look through the slats in the blinds. The property looks like it always does, lit up by lights we keep on so we can see anyone or anything that doesn’t belong. It’s quiet, the thick army of trees blowing slightly in the wind. It’s getting colder, the Massachusetts weather moving toward winter.
There are no shadows that don’t belong. No cars. Nothing.
I rub a hand over my nape, the tension in my gut not easing.
The buttons on my nightstand drawer are silent as I type in the code and pull it open, then my gun box. There are two guns inside, like always. I grab one, press my hand to the lid, then stop without closing it. Other than his fists, which he’s very good at, Dean doesn’t have a way to protect himself. He doesn’t need it when I’m around, but I’m not with him all the time. I leave the drawer ajar.
The screen on my phone lights up, drawing my attention. My father’s name is like a neon sign flashing through my mind. I scoop it off the nightstand and walk to the bathroom, heart thumping in my throat. Something is wrong. I fuckingknowit.
I wait until I’m behind the closed bathroom door before I click on his message. The second I do, the floor drops out frombeneath me, the room spins, my hand shooting out to grab the counter.
With difficulty, I focus on the photos. Dean and Aislin, Dean and me, Dean and Cillian and Rory. Dean coming and going.
They’re fucking watching us? I’ll kill whoever it is.
Heat flushes out my confusion and fear, replacing it with anger, until the next text comes through with two words: Riordan Sullivan.
My vision goes black. For the second time, I have to hold on to the counter so I can stay on my feet.
