Page 23 of Cipher's Baby Girl
Cipher
I lean against the wall, nursing my ninth whiskey. Or maybe my twelfth. I lost count, too busy trying to ignore the way my body automatically tracks Rose's movements through the room.
Every time a man's gaze lingers on her too long, something primitive rises in me, demanding blood. The analytical part of my brain—the part that helped me survive eighteen months of torture and keeps me functioning in society—recognizes this as irrational territorial behavior. The primal part doesn't give a fuck about rationality.
I take another swallow of whiskey, letting it burn away the urge to cross the room and put myself between her and everyone else. The alcohol dulls the edges of my control, making it harder to maintain the walls I've built around my wants.
She looks up, catching me watching her. For a moment, something hopeful flashes in her eyes before I force my expression into a scowl and look away.
Better she hates me than trusts me.
"You're a fucking idiot." Hawk appears beside me, following my line of sight to where Rose sits. "You know that, right?"
I grunt noncommittally, draining my glass and signaling for another.
"Another," I call to the prospect. "Double."
Hawk studies me with that penetrating gaze that's made hardened criminals confess their sins. "How many is that?"
"Not enough." The prospect delivers the fresh drink. I take a long swallow, welcoming the burn. Not enough to forget the feel of her skin, the taste of her mouth, the way she looked at me with trust I don't deserve.
"Enough for what? To keep acting like an asshole to the girl who's obviously head over heels for you?"
I slam the glass down harder than intended, the sound cracking through the space between us. "She's not—" I cut myself off, jaw clenching so tight a muscle jumps in my cheek. "She deserves better."
His laugh is sharp and humorless. "Christ, that line again? Save it for someone who doesn't know what you really want."
I turn to face him fully, letting my mask slip just enough to show the darkness beneath. "You have no idea what I want."
"I know exactly what you want," he counters, unfazed by my display. "The question is why you're fighting it so hard."
My fingers tighten around the glass. The truth burns in my throat, acidic and raw. "She's innocent."
"And?"
"And I'm not." The words come out like gravel. "You know what I am. What I've done."
Hawk’s expression softens slightly, a rare show of empathy. "What you are is a Shadow Reaper. What you've done is survive shit that would have broken most men. That doesn't make you unworthy of happiness."
I don't respond, my eyes drawn back to Rose like a compass finding true north. Something in my chest constricts painfully.
"She's not going to stay single forever," he says quietly, his voice pitched just loud enough for me to hear over the music. "You think some other man won't notice her? Won't want what you're too chickenshit to claim?"
The thought of another man touching Rose, tasting her sweetness, hearing her little gasps of pleasure, sends a surge of murderous rage through me so intense my vision actually blurs at the edges. My pulse pounds in my ears, drowning out the music. My hand clenches so hard around the glass that for a moment I think it might shatter.
"She doesn't belong here," I grit out, fighting for control. "Around men like us."
"Bullshit," Hawk counters. "She fits better than you think. The women have taken her in. Abuela treats her like another granddaughter. Even the brothers are protective of her." He pauses, his gaze shrewd. "And she looks at you like you hung the fucking moon."
I stare at him, momentarily speechless.
The conversation might have continued, but movement across the room catches my attention. Rose has wandered over to the pool table where two Renegade Kings are playing. They see her watching and say something that makes her smile nervously. One of them—I think his name is Mayhem—offers her a cue.
I watch, something hot and ugly building in my chest, as Rose takes the cue with tentative hands. Mayhem positions himself behind her, showing her how to hold it. His massive frame dwarfs her, his hands covering hers on the stick, his body entirely too fucking close. I can see his eyes dipping to the exposed skin where her t-shirt has slipped off her shoulder.
My blood heats from simmering to rolling boil in an instant.
Hawk follows my gaze. "Like I said," he murmurs. "Not innocent forever."
