Lo climbs two more stairs before the front door bursts open and bangs against the wall. He cranes his neck over his shoulder, and every muscle in his arms and abdomen tenses against me. I peek from the crook of his bicep and make direct eye contact with a stern, severe man. Dark brown hair that’s grayed by the temples. A jaw as hard and intimidating as Ryke Meadows’ and a glower as deathly as Loren Hale’s. Jonathan Hale is the scariest parts of both his sons. “Meeting,” Jonathan Hale says roughly, his voice husky and foreboding. “Now.” My arousal still exists. I can’t just extinguish it
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Oh no
