Page 18 of Undisputed Player
Different realities.
Leo sighed in his sleep, the sound pulling me from my spiral of self-pity. I moved toward his doorway, drawn by the magnetic pull of maternal instinct that had taken root the night he became mine.
He'd kicked off his blankets again, small legs tangled in sheets that had been washed so many times they were pilling over. One arm was flung over his stuffed T-Rex, a birthday find that had become his mostprized possession, while the other curled against his cheek like he was still a baby.
He was beautiful. Brown hair falling across his forehead, those long lashes that I envy, skin still holding the golden warmth of childhood.
I eased onto the edge of his bed and smoothed his hair back from his forehead.
Sometimes he got nightmares—fragments of memories from when Damon’s men appeared, confused images of raised voices and strange men with hard eyes. On those nights, I'd sit right here until dawn, guardian angel and bodyguard rolled into one exhausted package.
He deserved so much more than this. The thought hit me like it did every night, sharp and unforgiving. He deserved a room with windows, a bed that wasn't a thrift store rescue, a life where the sound of sirens didn't make him flinch.
But all I could give him was this: a roof that leaked when it rained hard, secondhand everything, and the fierce, desperate love of someone who would die before letting anyone hurt him.
Even if Damon could provide a better home, which was debatable considering his line of work, he'd pay for it with his soul. The cartel enforcer wanted his son groomed to take over his legacy of violence and drugs when he was old enough to hold a gun.
I tucked the blanket around Leo's small form, throat tight with the familiar cocktail of love and terror that defined my existence. He stirred lightly, mumbling something about dinosaurs, and my heart clenched like a fist.
I wouldn’t ever let them take him. Whatever it cost, whatever I had to do, he was staying with me.
Back in the kitchen, I slapped the laptop shut and tried to banish the image of Jax Easton's perfect face from my mind. But it floated behind my eyelids anyway.
That charming smile when he'd crouched to talk to Avery, the way his voice had softened when he’d spoken to her.
He'd glanced at me when he thought I wasn't looking, his gazelingering on my hands as I helped Leo with his zipper. I'd felt those eyes, hot and unsettling, and hated how my pulse had quickened in response like some sort of Pavlovian reaction to male attention.
I wasn’t naive. I knew how this worked.
Rich men flirted with the help because it was easy, because they could. It was a convenient game, a momentary diversion, a story to tell at whatever exclusive club they frequented.
I'd seen it at Seaside before, fathers lingering a little too long near the young teachers, their smiles all teeth.
But Jax hadn't looked at me like I was prey.
He'd looked at me like I was a storm cloud, and he wanted to stand in the rain.
I stood from the table, joints protesting like an old woman's despite being only twenty-four, and crossed to the sink.
The dishes from dinner sat piled like a ceramic mountain, remnants of boxed mac and cheese crusted to the bowls because it was all I could afford, and Leo ate it without complaint.
I scrubbed them with more violence than necessary, the hot water scalding my already raw hands, and I tried to focus on tomorrow's plans instead of tonight's inappropriate fantasies.
It was better to think about grocery lists and laundry than about his hands.
His hands… Large and scarred from fighting… big gold rings catching the light… What would those hands feel like? How would those rings feel against my skin?
I slammed the last bowl into the drying rack hard enough to chip it. This was exactly the kind of thinking that had gotten Giselle into trouble. She'd fallen for Damon's dangerous charm, his expensive gifts, and the way he made her feel special and chosen. And look how that had ended—needle tracks on her arms and a funeral I couldn't afford.
I wouldn't make the same mistake. I couldn't.
Leo depended on me to be smarter, stronger, and more careful than my sister had been. One wrong step, one moment of weakness,and I could lose everything: the custody case, my job, my nephew.My life.
I dried the last plate and checked the locks again. Deadbolt, chain, the rickety chair wedged under the doorknob. The routine was muscle memory now, as natural as breathing and twice as necessary. Through the peephole, the parking lot was empty except for the flickering streetlight that had been dying a slow death for months.
Safe for now.
Back at the table, I reopened the laptop with all the enthusiasm of someone about to perform surgery on themselves. The essay glared at me, cursor blinking like a metronome counting down the hours until dawn.
