Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
“You have knives here?” I ask.
Ozzy nods. “Always.”
“Always?” I repeat, fascinated.
He shifts slightly, careful not to break our hold, and reaches to the nightstand drawer. He opens it and pulls out a small roll of leather.
My eyes widen.
He unrolls it just enough to show me three sleek throwing knives, dark metal catching the lamplight.
“They’re… beautiful,” I whisper.
Ozzy’s mouth curves. “They’re tools.”
“Still beautiful,” I argue.
He looks at me like he’s amused and pleased and trying not to show either. “They balance a certain way,” he says. “Feels… right.”
I touch the leather carefully, not the blades. “How did you learn?”
Ozzy shrugs. “Picked it up. Practiced. Got good.”
Of course he did. He’s the kind of man who decides to master something and then just… does.
I bite my lip. “Will you teach me?”
Ozzy’s brows lift. “You want to learn how to throw knives?”
“Yes,” I say, the word quick and eager. “Tomorrow. Show me. Teach me.”
His gaze holds mine, something warm and protective flickering again. Then he nods once. “Okay.”
My chest lifts. “Promise?” I whisper.
Ozzy’s hand slides up my back, fingers threading lightly into my hair. “Promise.”
I settle back against him, smiling into his skin.
His arm tightens around me like he’s claiming the role I handed him. He’s my protector. And I’m completely okay with that. More than okay.
My eyes start to drift shut, my mind whispering all the things I don’t want to admit: I want him. I want this. I want a future that doesn’t end with me going back to scraps. But I don’t know how to ask for it. I don’t know if I’m allowed. So I’ll take what I can.
This moment.
This bed.
His strong arms around me. His quiet promise that tomorrow he’ll teach me something sharp and dangerous and empowering. And for now, while the house stays quiet and the night stays still— I let myself believe I’m safe. Even if it’s only for tonight.
FOURTEEN
OZZY
I wake up hard. Yes… that kind of fucking hard.
The sheets are tangled around my legs, morning light slicing through the half-closed blinds in thin, gold strips across the bed. The other side of the bed is empty and for a second the absence hits like a punch. Salem’s not here.
Last night’s dream clings to me like sweat. Her mouth on mine, soft at first, then hungry. The way she tasted—sweet, desperate, like she’d been starving for it too. Her hands sliding up under my shirt, nails dragging over my ribs while I pinned her against the wall, hips grinding slow until she whimpered my name against my tongue. I can still feel the phantom heat of her thighs wrapped around my waist, the slick drag of her body when I finally pushed inside.
Fuck.
I’m throbbing under the sheet, cock so stiff it hurts, leaking against my stomach. I press the heel of my hand down hard, trying to buy a minute of control, but it only makes it worse. Every pulse reminds me how bad I want her. How long I’ve been walking around with this ache.
Where is she?
I listen. The house is quiet except for the faint clink of a mug, the low gurgle of the coffee maker, the soft shuffle of bare feet on tile. Kitchen. She’s in the kitchen. Probably wearing one of my old T-shirts again, the hem skimming the tops of her thighs, hair messy from sleep. The image alone makes my dick jump.
I could go in there. Walk up behind her while she’s pouring coffee, slide my hands under that shirt, cup her breasts, press my erection against her ass until she gasps and arches back into me. I could lift her onto the counter, spread her legs, bury my face between them until she’s shaking and begging.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
I can’t trust myself right now. One wrong move and I’ll snap. I’ll push too hard, too fast, scare her when she’s still carrying fear in her shoulders. She needs safety more than she needs me rutting against her like a wild animal.
So I force myself out of bed. The hardwood is cold under my feet. My cock bobs painfully with every step toward the bathroom, heavy and flushed dark at the tip. I shut the door, lock it, lean my forehead against the cool tile wall for a second and breathe.
Shower. Cold. That’s the plan.
Except the second the water hits my skin—warm, not cold—I’m gone.
I brace one hand on the wall, let the spray pound my shoulders, and wrap my fist around myself. Slow at first. Root to tip. The soap makes it slick. My thumb drags over the head on every upstroke, spreading the precum that’s already beading again.
I picture her.
Salem on her knees in front of me, lips parted, tongue flicking out to taste the slit before she takes me deep. Her eyes locked on mine while she sucks, cheeks hollowed, throat working around me. The little moan she’d make when I hit the back of her throat. Fuck, that sound.