“If I promise I won’t get married again without telling you, will you stop destroying people’s lives in search of revenge?”

Kit considered his words carefully.

“I’ll try,” she said, nodding. “I suppose you’re forgiven. This time.”

“Wow, I’m just so fuckin’ relieved to hear that,” he replied. “Now I won’t have to cry myself to sleep tonight.”

PAINTER

I needed to slow down.

Every time I thought about Mel and that fucking stripper, I found myself pushing the bike’s speed higher. Couldn’t quite decide what I should do first when I got home—strangle the Hayes girls or slit Mr. Banana Hammock’s throat.

The picture of them together was burned on my brain. Hunter’d sent it to fuck with me, of course. Bastard still hated me for what I’d done to Em. Fair enough, because I fucking hated him, too.

Almost as much as I hated the stripper.

But not quite.

Her hand had been on his dick.

Reese had messaged me a couple hours ago, letting me know he’d dropped Mel off at my place for the night. Good to know she was safe. I’d slept for a while in Bellingham, but I was still pretty fuckin’ exhausted and it was a damned long ride all the way back to Coeur d’Alene. I had to be careful, too—leaving the state without permission was a parole violation. That meant no speeding, no splitting lanes . . . I didn’t even stop at rest areas, just pulled into truck stops when I needed a break.

Last thing I needed was a parole violation putting me in the same state as a murder victim. Torres should be able to cover for me back home, but if a Washington cop pulled me over, there’d be a paper trail not even he could disappear. Never used to worry about shit like that, but knowing Mel was warm and waiting in my bed? Changed shit. Changed shit in a big way.

I’d just passed the Spokane airport—still a good thirty miles from the Idaho border—when it happened. I’d flown over the crest of the hill into the city and changed lanes to pass another car when I saw the lights behind me. For an instant I convinced myself they were after someone else, because, swear to fuck—I hadn’t done anything wrong. Nothing.

Then he was right behind me and it was all over.

I pulled over and waited for the cop . . .

Fuck.

•   •   •

“Good evening, sir. Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No—I wasn’t speeding,” I said, trying to figure out how a woman who was five and a half feet at most had the balls to pull over a biker twice her size. Kind of pretty, too, although hard to make out much of her figure under what I assumed was a bulletproof vest.

“You didn’t signal when you were passing the white minivan,” she said.

No fucking way. I’d signaled . . . Was the bitch messing with me? Her face was serious, blank. I didn’t get that hostile vibe that I got from so many male cops, though. Probably a legit stop. Still, this was gonna complicate things if they ever made me as a suspect in the Hands situation.

But what were the odds of that? The only ones who knew were my Reaper brothers, and if the Nighthawks found out, the cops would be the least of my worries.

“I don’t doubt what you’re saying, but I’m pretty sure I used the signal,” I said, giving her a nice smile as I handed over my paperwork. “Maybe there’s a problem with the bike.”

She smiled back—nice. Took the bait. Might talk my way out of this one yet . . .

“It’s possible. Would you like me to look while you test the lights?”

“That’d be great,” I told her. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” she said, stepping back. I turned on the bike and flipped the signal.

“It’s on.”

“No good,” she replied, shaking her head. “It’s not working. I need to run your license and registration. Please stay seated on the bike with your hands on the handlebars while you wait.”

Fucking hell—must’ve blown a fuse. I watched the occasional car fly by while she ran the license, wondering if I’d get a ticket. Took a good ten minutes before she came back, her expression cooler this time.

“Mr. Brooks, it says you’re under supervision,” she said. “Is your parole officer aware that you’re out of state?”

“Yes,” I lied. If anyone called Torres, he’d confirm it. Of course, his payoff would have to go up—cost of doing business.

“I’m going to let you off with a warning. But I don’t want you riding farther tonight without lights.”

“Has to be a fuse,” I told her. “I’ve got some extras. If it’s all right with you, I can probably swap it out pretty fast.”

“Sounds good,” she said. “I’ll hold a light for you.”

Sure enough, the fuse had blown. Changing it out was easy enough, and ten minutes later I was on my way home again.

Back to Melanie.

MELANIE

The first light of dawn had filtered through the windows when I woke up. It took me a minute to figure out where I was—Painter’s bed. It smelled good. Like him. I smiled, rolling to the side as I stretched.

Reese had given me a ride last night, along with Kit, Em, Jess, and London. He’d been pissy as hell, although it was clear I wasn’t his target. Neither was Loni—he’d taken one look at her boobs in that wet shirt and all was forgiven. (Dancer was a genius.) He’d given me a ride to Painter’s place, unlocking it for me and making sure I was safe and settled before moving on to Jessica’s stop.

My clothes were soaked, so I’d changed into one of Painter’s shirts to sleep in. Because I’m a creeper, I’d grabbed a dirty one he’d had hanging on the back of the bathroom door. It smelled like him, which made me feel all warm and safe.

At least, that was my drunken logic last night.

Now I noticed that there were greasy, black streaks on my arms. They were all over the bed, too, and my stomach tightened into a knot.

Maybe the dirty shirt had been hanging up so it wouldn’t touch anything else . . . oopsie.

The bedroom door opened and I looked up to find Painter watching me. Crap, he had nasty bruises under both his eyes, and his nose looked a little off-kilter. Had he gotten in a fight?

“Are you okay?” I asked, forgetting about the greasy mess as I stood to walk over to him. He pulled me into his arms roughly and then his mouth covered mine, tongue plunging deep. It wasn’t a sweet, gentle kiss. Not at all—this was a branding, a reminder that even when we were apart I still belonged to him. Then his hands were on my ass and my legs were wrapping around his waist. He turned, shoving me into the wall as his hips ground into mine.

I’d never been so turned on so fast—clearly my body recognized him and wanted to make him welcome. Good thing, too, because he pulled his hips back just enough to loosen his fly, and then he was shoving deep inside, so hard and fast that it hovered between pleasure and pain. Then he bottomed out and I gasped, clutching at his shoulders for balance.

“Jesus, Mel,” he gasped, pulling his head back. “I like seein’ you in my place, wearing my shirt.”

I opened my mouth to apologize for the mess on the bed, but he swiveled his hips, grinding deep inside me and I forgot all about it. His hips swiveled again, pushing his pelvic bone hard against my clit, and I moaned. Oh God. How could a girl be expected to think under these circumstances?

After an eternity and no time at all, Painter started deepening his strokes, reaching new places inside me. Tension built, faster and harder than it ever had before. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was aware of the birds singing outside, of the smell of coffee, and the fact that I was a greasy mess from his shirt and soon he would be, too.

None of that mattered, though.

All that mattered was the fact that I was close—so close—to shattering into a million pieces. I caught the back of his head, pulling his mouth down to mine for another kiss. His tongue plunged deep again and my entire body clenched tight, hovering right on the edge.