Page 9 of Dead Devil's Playground
Hudson leans in, his shadow filling the doorway. His eyes are dark and lethal as they burn into mine. “Bark at me again and I’ll put a collar on you and show you what I do to abad dog.”
His voice is a growl, his breath hot against my face. Then he slams the door, rattling my bones, and stalks inside.
My thighs squeeze together involuntarily. JesusfuckingChrist. What’s wrong with me? I should hate that. I should claw his eyes out for daring. But instead, I’m left squirming in the seat, my pulse pounding. Yeah. Definitely fucked in the head.
When he finally emerges, his shoulders are still tight, but the edge is dulled. He tosses a plain bag onto the passenger seat and drops behind the wheel again, exhaling hard through his nose like he’s trying to exorcise the fury.
For a long moment, he just stares at the dash. His fingers tap the wheel in a restless rhythm. Then his gaze flicks up, meeting mine in the rearview. His eyes are still dark, still dangerous, but there’s something else now—something softer hiding under the cracks. “You okay?” His voice is quieter, almost human.
I grin, face stained with blood, and shrug. “Peachy.”
“You’re a fucking mess,” he mutters, gravel dragging over every syllable. “Don’t tell me you’re fine when you’re bleeding all over my car.”
I wave him off like it’s nothing. “It’s just a scratch. Handled myself pretty damn well, in case you didn’t notice.”
His eyes narrow, disbelief sharp enough to cut. “That scratch looks like someone tried to cut your throat open.”
I wince as I press a hand against it, feeling the sting deepen now that adrenaline’s fading. “Relax. I’ve had worse. Still breathing, aren’t I?”
He doesn’t relax. Not even close.
I smirk, leaning forward just enough to let my voice curl around him like smoke. “You know, you sound like a grumpy old man with a hero complex. Next thing I know, you’ll be waving a cane at me.”
For the first time, his lips twitch. A shadow of a smirk. “Maybe I should get one. Use it to beat some sense into your ass.”
Heat flushes low in my belly, and I fall back into the seat with a laugh. “Kinky.”
The SUV lurches back onto the road, the silence no longer suffocating but humming, electric, strung tight between us. When we pull up outside the apartment, he kills the engine and just sits there. “You really know how to push my buttons.”
I grin at him, baring my teeth. “What can I say? It’s a talent.”
His gaze meets mine, hard and unreadable. “That talent’s going to get you killed.” But there’s that ghost of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
I lean back, eyes glittering. “Then I’ll die keeping you young, old man.”
Something dark flickers across his face. “There are better ways to make me feel young,” he murmurs seemingly to himself, and the weight of it lingers in the air, heavy and hot.
Then it’s gone. He grabs the bag, pushes his door open. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
For almost two years I had built a wall between us. Ignoring the way my body reacted to him and the subtle undercurrent of tension that had slowly built over that time. The twins might make the occasional joke about that but I would never betray them by acting on anything. In the hours since the sun rose today, my whole world seems like it has tilted off its axis. It feels like I have taken a step in a direction I can’t retreat from now but at the same time so did he. And I have a feeling the twins may have played a part in that.
Hudson nods to the guys stationed outside the Devil's Lair, and for a moment, my heart thuds in my chest. The thought of the twins being inside the club makes me suddenly uneasy; if they see me like this, I can only imagine their reactions. I can almost picture them locking me away in some tower to keep me safe. So, I sigh softly in relief when we walk through the club and only see the workers, with neither of my men in sight.
Inside the apartment, the silence is wrong. No twins. No laughter. No music. Just the thrum of my blood in my ears. Hudson’s eyes sweep the room, sharp and clinical, muttering “Clear” like he’s exorcising ghosts.
I almost stumble when he spins back on me at the bottom of the steps. His hand catches my chin, tilts my face up. His thumb drags the edge of the cut, and I growl low in my throat. He ignores it, eyes narrowing on the wound.
“You’ll live,” he says, finally releasing me. Then he thrusts the bag into my hands.
I frown at him, suspicious, tugging it open. My stomach drops when I see what’s inside—hair dye. No box. No sticker. No way to know the color. Thatasshole.
I glare at him. “You didn’t even ask me what I wanted.”
His smirk is wolfish, pure sin. “Consider it payment. For me saving your ass.”
I snatch the bag from him, stomping toward the bathroom with a muttered curse. The smile tugging at my lips betrays me anyway.
Chapter 5
