Call You Mine (Servite Academy)

Chapter Thirteen

DAMON

I ’ve spent most of my life angry—at the world, my absent father, my mother for ruining herself and leaving us to fend for ourselves. Angry at everyone who was better off than I was. The way I they raised me twisted my perception of the world at an early age and I’m fucked because of it.

How could a kid, broken so early in life, ever heal when there was never anyone around to be an example of what I should have been?

I felt contentment throughout the madness. The last few years at the Grayson’s were tolerable. After Scarlett and Jade joined the rest of us at the house, I had someone to rely on when things got so bad I needed to be pulled out of the darkness. That was Scarlett for me. The one person who tethered me to the real world. Not the place my demons would drag me to at night when the world was silent yet my mind was raging with noise. Noise that I once used to drown out everything around me yet it became so unbearable I craved silence.

That’s when I made it my mission to create my silence, separating myself from the world around me.

I stayed clean, hating it was drugs that stole my mother away from us. Other than alcohol and weed, I stayed away from all the other bullshit. Fighting was my outlet of choice. It wasn’t the idea of beating someone black and blue, to the point they were near death, it was that I’d end up just as bad. The pain felt real. And for a guy who couldn’t feel anything but darkness consuming him daily, it was what I needed to feel alive.

Not to mention I was good as shit, so yeah, the money came in handy to a punk ass who had none. I’d realized early in life I sought control. Needing to control every aspect of my life was exhausting, but it was necessary in order for me to function properly. The moment something spun out of my control, was the moment I lost my shit. Hate to say it happened often.

When I started working at Kingsman, I found a new way to numb the pain and stay in control—one which didn’t require me to continue slamming my fist into anyone. Exercising both pain and dominance over others became my coping mechanism—my newest obsession.

But it fucked me up more than I was.

It fed a different beast inside me—one I didn’t even know existed. A savage who only came up to the surface when she was concerned. He ached for her, craved her, and when she wasn’t his to take, the only thing he could do was try to replace her. Though there was no replacing her. She was one of a kind—a true rare gem who shined so bright he could see her through all the darkness. Yet she wasn’t his, she never would be.

At that moment I believed I was satisfied with that idea, but turns out I wasn’t. Wynter was mine, and in order to claim her, I needed to listen to the beast within.

Which is why I’m sitting here, parked in front of some girly boutique that houses a photography studio on the second floor. I can’t help but think of how bad things have gotten.

I slam my head on the steering wheel before exiting and walking to the front door of the building. I don’t have to text her letting her know I’ve arrived. I saw her staring out the window which means she knows I’m here, at least because I told her I was coming for her.

When I reached out to one of my old connections, a hacker who used to do some under the table work for the Pleasant Hills Cobras Kai is now at the head of, I didn't think he’d figure it out so easily. It helped that when I bought Wynter her new phone, I had him insert a trackable sim card which allowed me to keep track of her whereabouts every second of the day.

Is it a little unconventional to stalk her for my peace of mind? Maybe.

Is it necessary? Hell yeah.

Especially when she’s so unwilling to share the truth behind her return. When a girl shows up at your doorstep, bloody and clearly running from someone, you make it your job to ensure her safety. Even if it means breaking all the rules.

Rules are meant to be broken, and with Wynter Servite, I’ve broken every damn one.

Taking my phone out of my pocket, I scroll through every text message she ignored and find the one thing that started my descent into madness.

The fucking picture.

To say my cock grew hard, and my mouth went dry would be a fucking understatement. My heart nearly stopped when her perfect figure wrapped in the most luxurious white lace lingerie flashed on my screen.

Silky smooth skin which begged for me to run my fingers over every inch, only to be followed by my tongue. Wynter Servite is a fucking wet dream come to life. Every inch of her perfect figure adorned by the delicate lace yet she still looked like a fucking sex vixen despite the luxury she was wrapped in.

Expensive. Exquisite. All. Fucking. Mine.

Yet as I wait for her to come down to me, I can’t help but question my position. What the fuck was I thinking running over here like a savage ready to claim my woman the moment I believed she was with another? The fucking picture she sent was purposeful. Meant to get more than just a rise out of me, she’d meticulously plotted to make me believe someone else was with her. That someone else was close to my property, my ass, my sweet little pussy.

Of course, I quickly realized she was bullshitting me when Hank, the hacker, sent me a screenshot of the security footage outside the studio from earlier that morning. That’s when I saw her walking in with two other women, one who wore head to toe black leather, her hair cut short.

My girl was trying to make me jealous. With what purpose? To make me break our contract. To make me be the first to say to hell with the no sex clause. We've gotten so close plenty of times it’s pretty much void at this point, not that I’d be the one to tell her that. Regardless, the stupid rule isn’t what’s keeping me from tossing her onto her back and ramming my dick into her, or flipping her on her fours and thrusting into her from behind until she’s screaming my name into the darkness.

It’s her not trusting me. She’s still keeping shit from me that much is fucking obvious and I can’t take it. I won’t be fucking her until she comes clean. I won’t risk giving her a part of me I’ve never given to anyone else if she’s unwilling to do the same. And she’s proven time and time again she doesn’t want it. If she did, she would have confided in me the day she showed up begging for my help.

It’s not because I’m unwilling to give this whole thing with her an honest shot if she were up for it, it’s because I know it would never work. So why force what’s inevitably fated to end?

It’s just like one of my favorite rappers said. “Having problems in relationships, that’s what happens when you see the world through a broken lens.”

Wynter grew up with designer rose-colored glasses over her eyes, probably still wears them from time to time. But I shattered mine time and time again until there was nothing but glass shards painfully embedded in my eyes.

My mouth goes dry the moment my eyes watch her step out of the building and make her way to me, thankfully now fully dressed. Yet the tight denim shorts barely cover her ass and her white corset style top still looks a little too much like the lingerie she was wearing.

I crack my knuckles before pushing off of the car and turning away from her to open the passenger side door. Without a word she slips inside and I slam it closed rounding the back and heading to the driver’s side. Before I slip inside myself, I look up at the second-floor window, where two women, Kara the photographer and Liza the boutique owner, watch me with curious gazes. Annoyed with their part in trying to make me jealous, I put my sunglasses back over my eyes and slip inside, slamming the door shut before driving off toward the house.

The ride is silent. I can tell she’s nervous, fiddling with her fingers over her lap, but she’s unsure what to say. From the corner of my eye, I watch her chest rise and fall with steady breaths, her perfect tits pushed up to her chin under the sexy as fuck top. My fingers tighten along the steering wheel as my gaze drops to her thick thighs, prickled with goosebumps from the cold air conditioning blaring through the vents. At least that’s what I tell myself.

I wouldn’t be able to handle thinking she was aroused, thinking about what I felt or thought of when her picture came through. I needed to mark every inch of her smooth, porcelain skin with my fingers, my mouth, my teeth. She was a blank canvas, one I needed to lay claim to so that every damn fucker, including the one I know is haunting her every nightmare, knows she belongs to me.

To tattoo my name on every inch of her. To fuck her so deep she feels it in her soul and it’s branded mine.

Even if I’ll never be able to belong to her. Not completely.

Wynter’s the one to crack the silence first when we pull into the driveway. I park the car, shutting off the ignition, but don’t make a move to exit.

“Are you really just going to sit there like you didn't just violate Kara’s privacy by…” she pauses, unsure what I did to figure out where she was. A few clicks here and there and Hank sent me Kara Parker’s phone number—the photographer who owns the studio and who was the person visible in the background of the photo Wynter sent me.

“By calling her when you were ignoring every single one of my messages and phone calls?” I finish for her, not bothering to look her way. I’m not sure I’d be able to stop myself from claiming her lips which are surely puckered into that sweet little pout she makes when she’s upset.

Feeling awfully suffocated, I tug on the neckline of my shirt, cracking my neck in order to relieve some of the tension.

“How did you even know I was…” Silence follows and I can’t help but turn toward her, watching as realization passes over her face. “You’re tracking me,” she states, rather than asking.

Her statement doesn’t warrant a response so instead, I reach over and unbuckle her seatbelt, invading her space as I lean over her. My beard grazes the bottom of her chin and I slowly glide past her. It affects her, obvious in the sharp intake of breath she takes as the thin layer of scruff on my jaw teases her cheek when I whisper in her ear.

“Get out of the car, Wynter, and walk your sweet little ass inside the house. Lock your door tonight, Princess,” I murmur huskily into the crook of her neck, gliding my jaw back and forth over the soft pulse point that’s rhythmically pulsating with every breath she takes. “Because after the shit you pulled, trying and failing to make me jealous and trying to manipulate me into taking what you're so desperately begging for, I’m not responsible for what I do to punish you.”

Slowly pulling back, I catch her biting her lip, her eyes closed while her mind is at war with what it is she wants from me. She reaches for me, her fingers tightly gripping the silver chain around my neck. It’s obvious she wants me, craves my touch, my mouth, my cock, but at what cost? Is the humiliation of another one of my rejections enough, or is it just another obstacle she’s willing to knock down to win this dangerous little game we’ve played, but refuse to lose?

“You’re such a fucking asshole Damon,” she scoffs, releasing me and reaching for the door handle only to find it’s still locked. Nice one idiot, telling her to get out yet refusing to let her. Story of my fucking life with Wynter Servite. Demanding one thing yet meaning another completely different one.

Leaning back into my seat I say, “Yeah, and yet you still want me. What does that say about you, Princess?” But I don’t expect her to respond. She looks defeated. The blue in her eyes is not as bright as it was the last time I was this close to her. Her smile is gone and in its place a stoic expression that mirrors the frustration inside me.

Wynter takes a deep breath before softly whispering, her voice so solemn it nearly breaks me. “That I’m more fucked in the head than I imaged possible, though that’s no surprise after the shit I’ve been through.”

A ghost of a smile hits her lips, a haunted and almost empty look in her eyes makes my chest constrict, aching to figure out what the fuck has gotten her this way. It couldn’t just be what happened with her family. She doesn’t seem to be the type to care about that. No, it's what happened right after. The domino effects that forced her to flee, to run to New York and away from me. But I fear what’s worse, is what has her running back to the one place she despised.

I swallow back the apology sitting on the tip of my tongue. God, I’m so fucking weak for this woman and that’s something I’ve never dealt with before. Something I’m not prepared to face, to understand where the vulnerability is coming from. It would do no good to contemplate the reasons, when deep down I know I will refuse to accept the truth. Not when it’s too goddamn unnerving.

Instead, I deflect, something I’m all too familiar with, putting this all back on her. “Shit you refuse to tell me.”

Tears prickle her eyes, a few escaping and staining her cheeks in black as the mascara runs down her cheeks. My eyes follow the trail of tears, slowly appearing before me, down her lips as she blinks them away. The scars she showed up with are nearly gone, but I can still see them. I know they’re there. Behind the makeup, which does nothing to heal the hurt the wounds leave behind but only mask the physical pain, yet under, the skin that’s healed near perfect is still scarred. Emotional pain bleeds longer, burns deeper, aches stronger.

The pain is there, written in the way she looks at me, etched into every part of her being.

“I know what game you’re playing, Damon,” she says, swallowing back the pain in her voice, masking it with a tone of self-assurance. “This tell-all only works one way, right? You expect me to divulge every one of my secrets. To give you insight into what goes on in my mind only for you to refuse to do the same.”

“Why question what you already know, baby.” I know I sound like a fucking asshole, but I’ve let her get too close. Close enough to see underneath the mask I wear as a cloak of protection against the potential heartbreak I’d endure by her hand.

It’s fucking terrifying how much I have to fight to keep her at a safe distance. But even more alarming is what would happen if I let her in.

Just when I’m about to reach back over to unlock her door, her phone vibrates loudly in her purse. Wynter doesn’t make a move right away to check the incoming text message, but when it vibrates once again and I reach for it, she’s quick to slip her purse out of my grasp. Digging inside for the device, she reluctantly unlocks the screen, her face going pale in horror from whatever she sees or reads on the screen.

Leaning over I try to catch a glimpse but she’s gotten one of those black out privacy screen protectors since the last time. Her gaze immediately shoots toward the front door of the house where I see a black box, sitting on the bottom steps of the porch, a large red bow placed at the top of the package.

Is the motherfucker really sending her gifts now, to my fucking address?

Without another word, I unlock the car and rush out before her, heading straight toward the package, yet once again she’s fucking quick, making it there just before I do. She picks up the box and rushes toward the door to escape me.

Silly girl, it’s locked and now she has no way out.

Panic flashes in her eyes at my advance but it’s not in fear of me, rather in fear of whatever is in the box.

“Who the fuck is it from, Wynter?” I growl, my voice so deep and gravelly it makes her visibly tremble. Shaking her head, she clutches the box tightly in her hands, uncertainty clouding her eyes but what I see more clearly is the fear. This package is scaring the shit out of her. The text messages, whoever is sending them, it’s not a secret lover, it’s whoever she’s running from.

Because since day one, the day she showed up on my doorstep, I knew she was running. The only question, from who?

Taking three steps toward her, her back against the front door with nowhere else to go, I try my luck and ask her the one thing I know she won’t tell me. “Who are you running from, Wynter?”

She shakes her head again before denying it. “I’m not running from anyone.”

I slam my hands down on the front door, caging her in with my hands on either side of her, my body pressing her back into the door. “That’s fucking bullshit,” I shout, interrupting her and making her jump, not expecting my sharp tone.

“Damon, please,” she begs me to stop pushing her, to give up and walk away, just as I was going to before the text messages interrupted us. But I can’t walk away, because despite what I keep telling myself, I need to know everything about her.

“We both know you came to me for a reason. You showed up at my door because you were running. You’ve received plenty of text messages that make you uneasy. And we both know whatever’s in that box you’re clutching so tightly, isn’t a gift you’re excited to receive.” I crowd her space as I slam my fist against the door once more. She flinches, her eyes closing like she’s afraid I’ll hurt her. “Or is it?” I ask, softening my tone yet my anger is still potent enough she keeps her eyes shut. “Because if you’re not running away from someone, if you’re not angry or scared to see whatever’s inside that box, then…” I pause, “Tell me, Princess,” I reach out to caress her cheek, my rough fingertips tracing over every invisible scar, “Is this some scorned lover you’ve been hiding out from? Is he trying to win you back, yet here you are practically whoring yourself out to me? Begging me to fuck you, when there’s another man who’s trying to win you back with pathetic little gifts.”

Her eyes shoot wide, anger radiating off her in a way I’ve never witnessed. Bile burns in my throat at my choice of words, insulting her in one of the most misogynistic ways, but it’s my anger about the situation that forces me to revert to my factory settings of asshole prick.

“Fuck you, Damon,” she cries out as her small hands fist, pounding against my chest to push me away but I don’t budge. It’s fucking sexy to see her so worked up, so angry when I know if I were to slip one hand underneath her thong she’d be fucking soaked for me, regardless of how pissed off she truly is. That’s the pull we have. “If anyone’s the whore in this situation it’s you. After all, I’m the one paying you.”

Her words sting, not because they’re not true, because they are, but I know I deserve them. I’m the one who can be bought, for a price, for a temporary good time. But it’s the bite in her tone, the way she spits it out like it wasn’t her choice to put us in this situation.

I’m so fucking done with this runaround she’s doing, tired of the whiplash her emotions are causing me. One second she’s practically naked, sending me pictures to tease me, the next she’s throwing our arrangement, one she asked for, in my face like it means nothing to her.

I’m tired of feeling this way—confused, hating the way I feel at just the thought of another man being anywhere near her. She doesn’t deserve my jealousy, if that’s what you can call this. I call it my possessive nature needing to lay claim on something I believe belongs to me.

Unable to stand this any longer, I turn and walk away from her, with no further questions or explanation.

“Where are you going, Damon?” she shouts as I head back toward my car. I know she has more to say, but she doesn’t. She feels it too. How explosive we are together, how dangerous we can be since neither one of us thinks before we speak and throw insults back and forth at one another as if words didn’t hurt the same as actions. “Damon!”

Opening the driver’s side door, I glance her way before ducking inside, and instantly regret it. Wynter looks defeated. The pain I can see in her eyes as the tears she’s trying so hard to push back, pool inside them. The way her bottom lip trembles when she bites down to try to push back the screams I’m sure she wants to let out.

But it’s the way her body grows stiff, the box still in her hand, her fingers turning white with how hard she’s gripping it, that makes my stomach churn with remorse. I should be there by her side, making her feel protected because obviously she’s running from something, and you don’t run from something that's good for you. You don’t run from safety. You run out of fear, yet I know the moment I allow myself to truly care about why she’s here, is the moment I lose myself to her.

So instead, I brush off the foreign feeling coursing through me and replace it with something she’s all too familiar with. A warning, “Lock your door, Princess. There are monsters lurking around, threatening to come out to play tonight. You may think you’re ready for that, but I know you’re not.”

The fear in her eyes proves I’m right. Someone hurt her, more than physical wounds hers lie deep inside. Emotional scars, the inability to trust, to confide in something without doubt. A familiar feeling to me which is why I can sense it. I can smell the scent of uncertainty, yet she wants to start something neither one of us is ready to fully give into. I’m not sure we’ll ever be.

I can’t deny I want her, that’s never been the question. I want Wynter more than anything I’ve ever wanted. I need her more than anything I’ve ever needed. But in order to survive, I must hold on to whatever shred of sanity I have left in me and I won’t be able to if I give into her. She will consume me completely, it’s just the woman she is. And after the shit she’s been through, Wynter Servite deserves to have my full attention, my loyalty, my devotion.

Igniting the engine and shifting the car into drive, I take off needing to get as much space from her tonight as I can. Because regardless of how pissed off I am at her for yet again lying and hiding shit from me, I was so close to punishing her in a way we’d both enjoy far too much.

In a way, I need to punish her for making me feel this way. A man like me has only so much self-control, and a woman like Wynter Servite is the ultimate fucking test.

It took more than I care to admit driving away and leave her standing there by the front door looking completely devastated. Everything inside me ached to comfort her, to wrap her in my embrace and kiss away the tears she’s holding back. To assure her she’s safe in my arms, that I’d die before I let anything happen to her. But I can’t bring myself to say any of that. Not when she’s refusing to do the same for me.

There are so many reasons I should push away the thoughts running through my mind. I may be a ruthless asshole but I’m also fucking possessive and that goes hand in hand with needing to protect what’s mine.

She’s not fucking yours . I have to keep reminding myself of that minor detail. Wynter Servite cannot ever be mine, not completely, and I sure as fuck won’t share her with anyone else.

Being a protector is in my nature. With my twin sister Ruby when we were growing up, with Scarlett when we became friends and started dating, although I took that too far for completely different reasons. Now here with Wynter, I’m falling into the same fucking habits.

An addict craving the only drug that’s ever helped me feel alive. The need to know everything about her. Where she is at all hours of the day—hence the tracker in her phone—who she’s talking to when she’s not with me. I’d go as far as saying I need to be in control of everything about her. It’s the only way to keep the doubt that torments me daily from consuming me.

I’m a sick motherfucker, but that’s what happens when you never meet your maker and your mother overdoses when you’re six years old, her dead body lying in front of you for days before it’s discovered. I never talk about it, but I know Ruby doesn’t either. I’m not even sure she remembers, since even at six years old I tried to shield my sister from it all.

Most people would say it’s a good quality to have, being a fierce protector, but not when you let it control you and force you to push too hard, take things too far, and become a monster who can’t be trusted. One who maims more than he protects. Possessive in the name of being fiercely overprotective.

That’s what I became when Scarlett and I were in a relationship, which is why I can see now it would never work. Yet here I go again, doing the same damn thing with Wynter. Falling into the same unhealthy patterns. Being so blindly obsessed with a need to claim that I become the worst version of myself, turning my insecurity into insults directed at the woman I want.

I’d go as far as saying the way I feel right now, the thought of another man coming anywhere near Wynter, being part of her life, is ten times worse than how I felt when Ace started coming around, inserting himself between Scar and I. And that’s fucking terrifying to admit a woman, this beautiful and alluring woman, has that kind of power over me. Especially when she’s not even fucking mine.

Not completely. Never.

Pulling up to the large steel gates of Clarissa’s estate, the location for tonight's charity dinner, this one supposedly in honor of the Metropolitan Association for Wellness and Rehabilitation, I pull up the winding gravel road and up to the front doors of the ostentatious mansion. White marble pillars line the front of the home, illuminated with bright twinkling lights that lead up the front porch. A red carpet leads the way into the estate from the driveway where the valet escorts the guests out of their pretentious cars.

I fucking hate events like this, events I obviously don’t fit into yet have too frequent because of our business. A few months ago, I would have been here for a completely different reason. I would have had a woman, like the one who exits the car in front of me wearing an exquisite silver gown which surely costs thousands of dollars, draped along my arm as I served as her escort for the night. We’d be cordial in public, parading around the room so all her friends could see she had a younger, good-looking man on her arm, but after the event concluded and I drove her back to her estate, I’d have served a completely different purpose.

One she’d hired me to do

Bile rises inside me at the memory of what I’ve submitted myself to since I started working for Clarissa. At the time I was okay with it, actually I needed it to cope with the demons that lurked inside me. I saw it as an outlet, a way to release the pent-up aggression inside me in a healthier way than succumbing to drugs or violence, only it wasn’t healthy, quite the opposite. Looking back at it now, as I sit here with a different point of view, now that I no longer engage in those activities, I’m repulsed by the thought.

It wasn’t necessarily the acts I’d take part in, because all of it was consensual and requested by every willing participant, but how it all made me feel. I thrived on being in control of the situations I found myself in, craving the way it made me feel in the moment. But it was the lingering shame and disgust which taunted me after that made me feel worthless. Like I was no better than my mother, then my father, then any other scumbag addict. I was addicted to the numbness it gave me.

I used my job as an outlet to extinguish the need in me for a relationship, for someone to protect, to have by my side. My need for her. Sure, I started working for Kingsman shortly after the first time we were together, but the only reason I could go through it all for so long, was because it was her face I was picturing when I was with the countless women who chose me as their prize. It was her mouth on me, her hands on my body. It was Wynter who brought me to my knees every single time. I think that’s the reason I’ve kept things so cold and distant with my clients.

Clarissa was the only one who could look me in the eye, the only one who could show her face when she was with me, and I think that was merely because she demanded it. For a long time, she was the only one who could touch me, but suddenly I craved the touch of a woman, even if it was a faceless one who I’d pretend was someone else. But they didn’t care.

They knew exactly what they were getting when they hired the elusive Draco. In public, I was a doting gentleman. Silent, complacent, willing to play whatever role was required. But in private, once the lights were off, the doors were locked, and the blindfolds were on, I was the one in control. I made the rules. They were few but simple.

No direct eye contact.

No touch other than:

Fingers/lips wrapped around my cock

Hands on my shoulders for stability.

No kissing.

Absolutely no penetration.

The last one was always one they thought they could find their way around. Every client of mine came to our agreement with the false hope of being the woman to change me or break one of my rules. They all wanted my lips on theirs, my dick inside of them but although they begged, and begged for it, I never broke my restraint.

I simply didn't want to because they weren’t Wynter.

I broke my rule once, with Clarissa. It was the day after my first fight with Wynter, the last time she came to town for a visit before suddenly appearing at my door a month ago.

I knew Wynter wasn’t being forthcoming about what was really going on, why she was in New York when it was the last place she wanted to be. She’d told me it was for work, modeling gigs she would get that kept her there. But I never saw her in any magazine or on a billboard in town. She reminded me although we were friends I had no right to know. She owed me nothing.

Wynter made it clear I wasn’t her father, especially not her fucking boyfriend, before telling me to stay the fuck out of her life. So, I did. I knew after why she did it—pushed me away like that. For the first time since we’d started this, well whatever this is between us, the lines were blurred. We’d become more than just friends, you could feel it in the tension filled air around us, see it in the way we looked at one another, and neither one of us wanted that. It was a risk we’d always known of—that spending this much time together, talking almost every day—our friendship would become hard to distinguish. We’d flirt back and forth, tease one another, and although we both could feel the shift, neither one of us wanted to accept it was there.

I was a mess after she walked out on me. I regretted everything that had transpired between us. Wynter had proven me right, she was just like every other girl and I hated the way her reluctance to trust me completely felt. I’d opened up to her, made myself available for everything she needed, and yet it wasn’t enough to warrant her trust in return.

I did what I did best—sabotaged the one good thing I had in my life with the worst possible decision. I ran straight into Clarissa’s arms—the one place I swore I’d stay out of. Of course she was waiting for me, almost as if she’d expected me to break at one point. I don’t think she knew about Wynter, probably figured there was someone since especially because I refused to fuck any of my clients, but there’s no way she knew the extent of it.

That night, I was drunk beyond consciousness, and I needed to release the anger I had in me. So I did, I fucked her until she was begging me to stop. Until the memory of Wynter walking out on my was erased from my memory, at least for that night. Then I left, without a single goodbye, I walked out on her and headed home.

I was attacked that night while on my way back to my apartment. Beaten near death by some thugs wandering around who surely saw how fucked up I was. Maybe they even followed me from Clarissa’s place. I’d walked after all, unable to locate where I’d parked my car. Maybe it was her husband who’d sent them, having discovered our tryst.

The possibilities were endless. All I knew was that I fucked up majorly, and I was going to pay for it. That night as I lay there bloody and an inch away from death with a bullet in my shoulder, was the night I swore to myself I couldn’t lose it the way I had. And that meant Wynter Servite, the only woman I could ever lose myself in, was off fucking limits.