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“I don’t like being lied to, Ayla. In fact, it’s one of the few things in the world I won’t fucking tolerate. So you wanna try that again?”
The markings on his fingers aren’t random symbols. They don’t spell out “love” and “hate” or some shit like that. They’re numbers. The month, day, and year of the night I was shot.
It’s harder for people to hurt you when you don’t willingly hand over pieces of your heart.
There are just two crisp hundred-dollar bills, and a note written on a napkin in slanted, confident handwriting. Marcus Constantine. And below that, a phone number.
The low, deep rumble of his voice penetrates the fog rising up in my mind. And this time, I hear exactly what he says. “I will never let you go.”
“You saved my life,” he repeats more emphatically. “Every day since then, every fucking heartbeat, I owe to you.”
“For two and a half years, my heart has continued to beat because of you. Do you know how many heartbeats that is, Ayla? One hundred million.”
“Then what do you want?” There’s an edge of desperation to my voice. I have to know. I need to know. His expression shifts again, and for the first time since he crashed into my life in a flurry of violence and chaos, I see something like vulnerability in his eyes. His free hand moves to my face, his knuckles dragging down the side of my cheek. “You, Ayla. I want you.”
“It’s always been you,” he murmurs roughly, his voice like sandpaper. “Ever since the first time I saw you that night. You’re my fucking guardian angel, my dirty secret, my broken doll. You’re everything I obsess over. Everything I crave.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, angel. I’ve been inside you. You’ve taken my cock. You’ve taken my cum. You’re fucking mine.”
“Those two are like my brothers. I will never hurt them. I will never fight them. But if you ever touch a man besides any of the ones present right now, that man will pay for it dearly. Do you understand?”
