Then he blinks. His eyes narrow slightly and his face hardens. “You’re wrong, Love.” I stare back at him confused. “I have every right to interfere.” He stalks toward the door, and I follow. I’m bewildered, angry and unsure of what in the hell just happened. I’d told him I loved him, and he hadn’t even addressed it.
“Bryce!” I call, quickening my pace to meet his long strides. He doesn’t slow as he walks confidently down the hall and into the main room. “Bryce!” He ignores me, but my yell draws the attention of everyone in the clubhouse.
“Delilah is off limits,” he announces, his voice just loud enough to carry across the room. “If you touch her, I’ll put you in a fuckin’ coma.” The chilling tone in his threat has every head in the room nodding, even mine.
He pauses at the door, pointing to a Prospect, but turning his steely, green eyes on me. “She never leaves your sight. If something happens to her, something happens to you. Understood?”
“Got it, SA.”
He narrows his gaze on me—daring me to defy him … promising me wrath if I do. I will, and he knows it. The knowledge hardens his voice and his menacing glare.
He growls one final order—warning evident in his demand. “Watch her.” Then he’s gone.
I turn my back on the curious stares, and disappear to my room—well aware of the Prospect hot on my heels. I slam the door in his face, and lock it behind me. Seconds later, he’s managed to pick the lock, and strides in just as I’m climbing out the window.
I’m surprised when he doesn’t follow me through it. Instead, he emerges from the side of the building moments later just as I’m on my fifth push-up—trying to burn off some of this nervous energy. I hate it’s Cook, who has nearly a year of prospecting under his belt. It’d be a lot easier to shake a rookie than it would be one who’s skilled in following orders.
Cook is every bit of six foot, cut and very handsome. But he holds no comparison to Bryce in my eyes. I sneer at the thought. I don’t want to find him attractive anymore. Especially now when all I want is to hate him—hate him for walking out … for not acknowledging I love him … for not telling me back … for forcing me to comply when he has no fucking right.
“Why do you listen to him?” I ask, glancing over at Cook who leans against the side of the building.
“Because that’s my job.”
“No…your job is at The Country Tavern,” I correct. “Where you work Tuesday through Saturday. He’s not your daddy, you know.” I’m trying to push his buttons, but he’s unaffected.
“You’re right. He’s not my daddy. He’s the sergeant at arms for the Devil’s Renegades…a club I very much want to be a part of.”
“Why would you want to be a part of any club that he’s in?”
“Probably the same reason you do.” I narrow my eyes on him. He just smiles.
“Bryce is a dick,” I grumble.
“That’s your opinion.”
“You’re a dick.”
“That, too, is your opinion.”
The inability to get a rise out of him pisses me off further. So I focus my energy on continuing the exercise regimen that already has my body screaming in protest. I push through it, rolling to my back on the cold ground when my arms start to give out.
A hundred sit-ups later, I’m gasping for air. Where did Bryce go? What is he doing? When will he be back? The unanswered questions have me furious. Where the fuck is my beast when I need him? But that’s a question I do have the answer to. He’s sleeping—tucked tightly away in his cage where Bryce left him.
I wonder how many days it’ll take for either Bryce or my beast to return. Without sexual release, I’ll need pain. And no Bryce means no release. I chance another look at Cook who’s doing just as he was told—never taking his eyes off me. I decide then if my beast shows back up before Bryce, I’ll make sure it’s Cook I provoke to beat the hell out of me.
Slimy bastard…
“What time is it?” I ask, looking up at the darkening sky.
“A quarter after five.”
Damn… Would today ever end?
“Take five, Prospect.” Luke…great. “How you doin’, Delilah?”
“What do you think?” I mutter, wishing like Bryce, Luke would disappear. I wonder if I can outrun him…
“I think you’re upset, and you don’t want us to know it, so you’re acting pissed.”
I turn my head to look at him. He smirks down at me, hands in his pockets as he towers above me. From this angle, he looks so much bigger. “I am pissed. Very pissed.”
I sit up and he offers me his hand. I ignore it and stagger to my feet, brushing the dirt and grass from my clothes. “So you love him,” he says. It’s not a question.
“So you eavesdropped.”
He shrugs. “Maybe.”
“You can’t let him do this to me, Luke.” He regards me a moment, then shrugs again.
“Then quit.”
I startle at his suggestion. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. Now that I’m aware of it, I’m faced with a new dilemma. If I quit, I’ll be free of his hold. But with that, I forfeit any possibility of ever seeing him again. Could I do that? Did I want to? In this moment…absolutely.
“Fine. I quit.”
When he shrugs again, I want to punch him. “You can’t.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I need you.” At one time, his words would be endearing to me. Now, not so much.
“For what?” I ask, throwing my hands up. “It’s not like I can do anything. Your guard dog threatened to put anyone who touched me in a coma. You have plenty of women here to cook, clean and serve beer—”
“True,” he says, cutting me off. “But none of them do it as well as you.” He winks and leans in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell them I said that.”
“I’m serious, Luke. I’m done. I gave him my heart and he pissed it away.”
Luke lets out a breath, the humor gone from his face. “Be patient with him, Delilah. He’s…damaged.”
“And I’m not?” I snort, finding it ridiculous that Luke chose me of all people to pull the damaged card on.
“Fair enough.” He fights a smile, and despite my efforts to suppress it, I feel my own tugging at my lips. “Give him a couple days. He’ll come around.”
“And what in the hell am I supposed to do until then?”
He grins down at me. “Drive Cook crazy. He’s had it easy the past eleven months. I want him to earn his patch.”
“Fine,” I say on a breath. “But Luke…” I level him with a look, letting him know I mean what I say. “I can’t do this forever. I won’t. What he did was wrong. He hurt me. And I’m tired of being hurt.”
He nods, his blue eyes sincere and full of empathy. Pulling me in, he hugs me tight. I welcome his embrace. Much like Bryce’s, it has the power to make me feel protected and wanted. “I know, babe. It’ll all work out. I’m sure of it.”
Well…at least someone is.
****
“Get out of my room!” I scream, hurling a shoe at Cook. He dodges it easily, cocking one eyebrow in amusement. I throw another and he sidesteps it again—seeming bored at my endless attempts to get him to leave.
Last night, he slept on my floor. This morning, he followed me to the front room, and watched me while I drank coffee and smoked. The only time I haven’t seen him is when he asked someone to relieve him long enough to use the bathroom. Then he was right back in my sights.
When I ate, he ate. When I slept, he slept. When I worked, he watched. I was going fucking crazy—and he didn’t care. Actually, he seemed to rather enjoy it. But when he refused to let me shower with the door closed, I lost it. That’s where we are now.
“I will not let you stand there and watch while I shower. I mean it, Cook. You’re overstepping your boundaries.”
“I have no intention of watching you, Delilah. But the door stays open.” His cool, calm demeanor pisses me off more than him being my shadow.
“Call Bryce. Right now. Get him on the phone.”
He shakes his head. “Bryce is busy.”
“I’m getting Luke.”
“Luke’s gone. Won’t be back till tomorrow.”
I grind my teeth, wishing I had a gun and imagining how good it would feel to blow his kneecaps out. “If you don’t call him this instant, I’m going to ram my head into the wall, knock myself unconscious and force you to call. Then you’ll have to tell him I’m hurt. In turn, he’ll hurt you.”
He shoots me an amused look. “You’d do that?”
“Damn right I would.”
“Why don’t you just call him yourself?”
“Because I don’t want to speak to the bastard. I want you to call him, and deliver my message.”
He shakes his head. “Nope.”
“Fine.” I shrug. “Have it your way.” Snatching his beer bottle from the dresser, I slam it against the corner—shattering the end. Glass shards and beer fall to the carpet. He moves quickly, but stops when I put the jagged end of the bottle to my arm.