THREE

Savage sat up in bed, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping the sweat away. Another fucking nightmare. He couldn’t close his eyes. He hadn’t for a long while and he needed sleep. Desperately. If he didn’t get sleep soon, he was going to explode, and anything in his path would be annihilated. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. That was how much sleep he’d managed before the nightmare woke him—again.

He threw back the sheet, the only thing draped over him, because sometimes he’d get twisted up in his nightmare world and come up fighting. That was never good, considering he slept with weapons close to his hand at all times—except he wasn’t sleeping.

It took only a few minutes to take his third shower that night. The first two had been in hopes the hot water would get him to sleep. The third was for her. Seychelle. He’d held out for nearly a week. He had this itch he couldn’t get rid of. He wished it were in his cock, but it wasn’t. He rubbed his chest.

He didn’t want to give in. She was coming to their bar on Thursday . . . that was the damn problem. He wasn’t certain she would come, and he was probably the reason she wouldn’t. She knew if she did, he wasn’t going to let her go. It didn’t matter, because he was going to her. He didn’t want to. His seeking her out would let her know she had the upper hand. She was the one woman in the world who could actually make him feel like a real man and not the walking dead.

He pulled on his jeans, boots and a tee, stretching it across the heavy muscles of his chest. His vest was next. Then he was gone. The sound of his bike was loud, rivaling the boom of the ocean as the waves hit the cliff and sea stacks to throw white, foaming spray high into the air. The fresh air held salty mist, hitting his face and clearing his head. Being on his bike and riding the ribbon of coastal highway always helped rid him of the worst of his ever-present pent-up rage—at least for a little while, until something triggered it again.

It only took a few minutes to get from Caspar to Sea Haven. He drove through the narrow streets until he came to the small cottage at the end of a dead-end road. The headlands stretched out on the other side of the street, forming the cliffs directly above the ocean. From the vantage point of the cottage, she had an excellent view of the stormy waves.

Savage backed his bike into her drive, right up to the small garage. He sat for a moment, listening to the pounding sea. It was angry tonight, matching his mood. He scanned the neighborhood. The little house was a distance from any other homes, with a field stretching between her cottage and the closest neighbor. No dogs barked. No one was moving.

He prowled around her house. Easy break-in. The front door had a shit lock. The back door was unlocked. He looked up at the heavens for a moment, wondering what the hell he was going to do to her for forgetting to lock that door. There was no alarm and the windows had no locks. One was open. Peering in, he could see the bed with Seychelle curled up in it, facing away from him. He sighed. Anyone could break in. A kid could do it.

He caught the window ledge and slid into the room easily. He was a big man, but it was a good-sized window with no covering. He wanted to shake her. Instead, he sank down on the edge of the bed and leaned down to take off his boots. He heard a gasp, and she sat up, throwing a punch at his head. He ducked it easily.

“Knock it off. You deserve to have the crap scared out of you. This place is an invitation to perverts and serial killers.”

Seychelle scooted to the headboard, pulling the sheet up to her chin. “Which are you?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her. She looked outraged. She also looked as if she might burst out laughing at any moment. Her damn dimple was very much in evidence. He concentrated on taking off his remaining boot. “I’m a pervert, of course.” He thought about it. “I might be considered a serial killer by some people. I don’t know. No one’s put that label on me yet.”

He shrugged out of his colors and folded them neatly, putting them on the end table. She had little girly things on it, none expensive. Nothing in the house really was, with the exception of an amazing blown-glass sculpture of two roses intertwined together. Both red, the stems dark green, winding their way lazily up toward the layers of soft petals, the entire sculpture nearly sparkling brightly with color from within. The two flowers were permanently set in a crystal blown-glass vase that sat on a small round base of moving colors. It was beautiful. Stunning even.

Two intertwining hand-blown crystal roses? Who had given her that? Some other lover? He didn’t like the idea, but he was careful not to knock it off the edge when he pulled his T-shirt off with one hand and put it on top of his colors. The damn sculpture was the centerpiece of the room, and clearly it was the one thing she treasured.

She didn’t protest when he folded his shirt. Why the hell didn’t she stop him when he took it off? He’d been counting on that.

“You know I could have shot you.” She sounded very solemn.

He stretched out on her bed, close to her, pulling one of her pillows out from behind her so he could jam it under his head. “You don’t have a gun, Seychelle. It’s impossible to shoot me if you don’t even have a fucking gun.”

“The point is, I could have had a gun, and then you’d be dead right now.”

“If you had a gun, I would have taken it away from you.”

“You can’t take my gun away from me. I’d shoot you first.” Now she sounded indignant. “That’s the point I’m making. You can’t just break into my house . . . How did you get in? I locked the front door.” She frowned. “I’m not certain I locked the back door. Did I?”

“No, you didn’t lock the back door. And you didn’t lock the windows. That one is wide open.” He pointed to the bedroom window. “I just came right in.” He turned his head to narrow his gaze and give her his killer stare. Maybe he should have really frightened her, so she’d learn a lesson.

“No one really locks their doors around here, Savage.”

“I’m changing the locks and you’re going to use the new ones. You made an enemy of that scout, and he’s the vindictive type. You haven’t seen the last of him unless I do something about it. I haven’t decided yet what to do about him.”

Her hand dropped to his head. He’d shaved it the night before, and she rubbed gently. It felt soothing. He never liked to be touched, but she felt different and he didn’t knock her hand away. Her touch was like her voice, a kind of magic.

“What would you do to make him stay away?”

“That’s where the serial killer part comes into play.” He stared up at the ceiling. She had a fan. It had wide paddles on it, and the light fixture was ornate. “Lie down.” He patted the bed beside him. “It isn’t like we haven’t done this before.”

“That’s true. You broke into my hospital room by lying to the nurses.”

“Just one old biddy that didn’t want me anywhere near you.”

“She was very wise.” Seychelle slid down the bed until she was lying beside him, but under the covers.

Savage lay on top of the comforter. Still, he could feel her next to him. Her heat. Every breath he drew brought her scent into his lungs. That circulated through his body, sending her everywhere until she seemed to be flowing through his veins like a drug.

“She was afraid I’d teach you all sorts of dirty, sinful things.” Dirty, sinful things were beginning to insert themselves into his mind. Once there, there was no pushing them out.

Seychelle was silent for a moment. When he looked at her, she had that little smile, the one that made his cock come to attention when he thought about it, along with those lacerations that were all his. He didn’t fight it. He wanted to feel alive. She wasn’t afraid of him. She had a smart mouth, sassy as hell, but no sense of self-preservation at all. He was going to have to change that. He reached under the covers to pull her left leg out so he could stroke the pads of his fingers along those indentations in her skin. She didn’t resist or try to pull away.

“Do you know all sorts of dirty, sinful things?” There was real curiosity in her voice.

His entire body tightened. His cock was beginning to go past a pleasant ache to an actual pain. “What kind of fuckin’ question is that? Look at me, woman. Of course I know all sorts of dirty, sinful things.”

“Cool.” There was a teasing note in her voice.

He turned his head and glared at her. “Are you just trying to piss me off? I want to shake you right now.”

“I’m so sorry I damaged your fragile ego, Savage.” She laughed softly, and the sound sent musical notes floating through the room, touching his skin until little electrical sparks danced over him, this time in various shades of gold. He hadn’t expected the show, but there it was, another thing she gave him that he wasn’t going to just be able to walk away from.

She didn’t sound in the least remorseful or even like she had an inkling of why he was angry with her. Clearly, she didn’t believe he was any kind of a threat to her. He’d been a threat since he was a little kid, and anyone seeing him knew it. Not her. Not Seychelle.

Her laughter made him want to smile. The sound found its way inside him, just like the stroke of her fingers on his head seemed to push out demons one by one. His body relaxed, the tension draining out of it slowly. That swirling pool of rage deep inside of him where the monster dwelled subsided as well, just calmed as if her fingers were magic.

He put his arms over his shoulders and tucked his hands behind his head, not wanting to make the mistake of touching her again. Smelling her fresh, clean scent was bad enough. She was everywhere in that room. It was very small, but it suited her. She was short. And curvy. He liked curves. Her curves. And her skin. Like a canvas. A fresh canvas just waiting for him. Her hair was like a waterfall of honey gold, with sun-kissed platinum streaks spilling across her pillow, all silky soft and brushing his shoulders. Shit. He wasn’t a fucking poet.

“Lay the fuck still.” He snapped it. If she moved and all that hair slid over his skin, he was going to do something both of them were going to regret.

“This is actually my bed, which you were not invited into, so don’t tell me what to do in it. And while we’re on the subject, what are you doing here?”

“You have a good mattress.”

She scooted back up to the headboard again, but he was lying on top of the blankets and she couldn’t pull them with her. He turned his head to look at her. She wasn’t wearing much. It was some little top that barely covered her tummy. Little shorts clung to her thighs, and if he wanted, he could have run his hand right up inside, where she was warm. Damp. Waiting for him. And there was her leg and her rib cage. That side of her breast. The side of her face. That little laceration over her eye. All his.

“Wait a minute. You knew my mattress was good, so you came here tonight? That’s the answer? How did you know that? Have you been here before? Because if you have, that’s just plain creepy and you need help.”

“I’m the one who needs help? It’s creepy that I came here tonight. I crawled through your open window and climbed in bed with you. You don’t think that’s creepy. Woman, you are very disturbed. And no, I haven’t been here before. I was just commenting you have a good mattress.”

“It’s important to have a good mattress.”

She said it like it was gospel. He wanted to laugh. They kept having the strangest, most ludicrous conversations, and the more she talked, the more he wanted to strangle her—or kiss her until neither of them could breathe.

She’d gone silent again. He found himself looking at her bare left leg. Mesmerized by it. The one that had been scraped along the ground so he could live. Those scars that weren’t healed all the way were red and raised, marring her perfect skin. Those scars were his. They belonged to him. He touched them with the pads of his fingers. Gently. Running his fingers from her ankle to the top of her thigh right over the evidence of the scrapes and lacerations.

“You still haven’t answered me, Savage. What are you really doing here? We both know we aren’t going to have a thing. I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl. You don’t even give a girl an entire night.”

His hand slid up her thigh and circled it. “You want me. You think I can’t tell when a woman is attracted to me? We have chemistry, baby, and it’s off the charts.”

She didn’t remove his hand. She should have. Most women would have. Most women wouldn’t have let him crawl through their window and lie on the bed next to them. Those incredible blue eyes of hers moved over his face and then his body. She took her time, looking at the tattoos. Looking at his scars. The burns that were the most disturbing of all. He had a lot of them. He didn’t cover them up. He let her look her fill, and she did. She didn’t ask why he had the words Whip Master burned into his chest, but her gaze took it all in.

She gave a little sigh. Regret? Maybe.

“You’re hot as hell. And you just admitted to knowing dirty, sinful things. What girl wouldn’t be tempted? You’re scary dangerous-looking. Tatts. Muscles. A history of scary scars. Those eyes of yours. You look at a woman and she’s going to get hot. The thing is, honey, I know myself very well. You would eat me up and spit me out. I can’t take that kind of hurt, and I wouldn’t be able to separate my emotions from the wild, clearly awesome sex we’d have together.”

She was so fucking honest she tore his heart out. He hadn’t met too many women who just put it out there. Every word she said felt like a brand sinking through his flesh right into bone. Her brand. Her name. His addiction, his craving for her wasn’t going to get better. They were both in trouble. He wrote his name on her thigh with his finger.

“I didn’t come here for sex, Seychelle. I can pick up any bitch in a bar and get what I want. I came here because . . .” He trailed off.

His hand went back to the long, pitted lacerations in her leg. The ones that were raised. So many. He felt his heart shift. His stomach did a slow roll. She stayed silent.

“I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t slept in days. If I do, I get nightmares. They’re bad,” he confessed. “I wake up fighting. It can be . . . dangerous.” What kind of pussy was he to tell her the truth when he wouldn’t even tell his brothers? He let go of her leg and lay back, staring at the fan on the ceiling.

Her hand went to his head again. Her fingers drifted over his scalp. He counted his heartbeats there in the darkness. Felt the magic in her touch as her fingers began a deeper massage.

“You came to me because you couldn’t sleep? I’m not certain how to take that. It could mean I’m the most boring woman you know.”

“Take it as a compliment. I’m not the kind of man to throw that shit out there very often. You’re restful. You chase the demons away.”

Seychelle looked down at Savage as he closed his eyes. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She did neither. He was the most beautiful—and damaged—man she’d ever met. He was absolutely gorgeous. He had the kind of physique a sculptor would go crazy over. Every line in his body was purely masculine. He had more muscles than she’d thought possible in a man, and she was so attracted to him it was a sin. But she knew better.

He was everything she shouldn’t get near. Everything she was attracted to. Those scars. Those burns. Those terrible words someone had burned into his flesh permanently. Whip Master. He needed violence. He craved it in the way others might a drug. His world revolved around it. Worse, he had a darkness in him that she couldn’t even fathom, but she knew it was real and he was capable of things she couldn’t conceive of. She was drawn to that darkness like a moth to a flame, and she would burn up in his fire. She would. She had no protections against a man like Savage. She felt his loathing of himself and the demons that plagued him and she wanted to be the woman to bring him peace.

Savage was the type of man she wouldn’t resist, and if she got too close, he would eventually take all of her. She knew she would want to sacrifice herself for him. Give him everything she was, and he would swallow her whole. Men like him couldn’t help themselves, they didn’t look after someone like her. They took and took until there was nothing left.

Savage . . . She sighed and scooted closer to him, so she could use both hands to massage his head. She’d learned to do a scalp massage when she was ten years old from a professional masseuse, so she could massage her father’s head when he was in pain.

“Baby, you don’t have to do that,” Savage said without opening his eyes. “Just lying next to you makes it better.”

Her heart lurched. That was bad. Really, really bad. He wasn’t there because he thought she was beautiful. Or because he was so attracted, he just had to have her. He could lie in bed next to her and not reach for her, which really was an insult because Savage was the most sexual man she’d ever encountered. He radiated sex, and not just sex, but carnal, sinful, wicked sex, the way he radiated pain and rage. His kind of sex was something she’d dreamt of, fantasized about, was scared of and knew was not for her. She was too . . . tame. He was too wild.

He wanted to be with her for purely platonic reasons—she brought him peace. That was her gift and her curse. She had hoped he wouldn’t feel it—that what worked for some, didn’t work on him. It wasn’t like she didn’t have men flirting outrageously all the time. She sang in bars. That would naturally follow. Aside from the fact that she was maybe—okay, very—curvy, she was good-looking if she wasn’t being critical of herself. She just didn’t react to men the way she should. She craved . . . something she couldn’t name. She needed something darker. Something someone like Savage might offer, just not quite so intense.

“You’ve gone quiet on me, Seychelle. I’m not sure what to think about that.”

Looking down at him, she could see those ultra-long lashes. No man who looked as scary as he did should have his lashes. “I’m thinking.”

He sighed and started to turn his head upward, so he could see her. She held his head still. “Don’t move. Just lay there. You’re disturbing my sleep, so I should get to do whatever I want with you.”

His mouth curved into a smile, but she couldn’t see his eyes, so she couldn’t tell if it was real. She doubted it. Savage wasn’t a man given to smiles.

“I crawl through your window, take off most of my clothes, get in bed with you and all you want to do is rub my head?”

“You are bald. It’s possible I could get three wishes to come true.”

“That would only work if I were really bald. I shave my head. There’s a difference.”

“Receding hairline?” Deliberately, she pushed sympathy into her voice, when she wanted to laugh.

He moved so fast she barely had time to blink when he caught both her arms and yanked her down over the top of him. She landed across his lap, face buried in the mattress. His hand smacked her bottom hard and then he pushed her back into a sitting position over his head. Clearly, he was much stronger even than she had imagined.

“Ow.” Seychelle rubbed her bottom and glared at him, not that he was looking at her. “Sheesh. Will you stop doing that? It’s not like I’m wearing much padding. I guess I should qualify that statement—I meant in the way of clothing.”

“You deserved that. And don’t remind me of your lack of clothing.”

“I take great exception to your reasoning. Receding hairline is the number one reason for men shaving their heads. I’m sure I read that statistic on the internet.”

He reached over his head, found her hand and put it on his head. “Get to work, woman, and stop trying to defend a completely indefensible position.”

“You told me I didn’t have to massage your scalp.”

“I changed my mind. Fuck, woman, you have a mouth on you. Why aren’t you afraid of me like everyone else?”

She could tell him the truth. But if she did, if she told him she could “see” inside him, he would probably take out one of his many weapons and shoot her. Or he’d leave, and she’d never see him again. Because she wasn’t going to go to the Torpedo Ink bar and audition with their band. She didn’t dare be around Savage more than she absolutely had to. He wouldn’t want her to know his secrets, and he had so many it was frightening. She could see straight into him where no one else could, where he had gifts he didn’t want anyone—especially the men and women of Torpedo Ink he loved—to know about. She saw into him and knew he was a good man, when he didn’t know it and would never believe it even if she told him.

“If you crawled into my bedroom to hurt me, you already would have done it.”

“Not if I wanted a killer scalp massage first.”

She heard the trace of amusement in his voice, and it slid inside her like a gift. Instinctively, she knew Savage didn’t do with anyone else what he was doing with her—sparring verbally and enjoying himself. It was a little exhilarating.

“I see. You plan to kill me after the massage.”

“Maybe, so you’d better make it a long one.”

She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Turn over, then. I’ll massage your shoulders and back. You carry a lot of tension in your shoulders.”

There was the briefest of hesitations. If she wasn’t so tuned to him, she wouldn’t have noticed, but she saw everything about him. Inwardly she cursed herself for gravitating toward the wounded and the dark. She couldn’t go near him after this night. She vowed to herself she wouldn’t.

Her life had been about taking care of others, watching herself, being disciplined when she had to, so she could take this night, for however long he stayed, and enjoy herself. He’d made it clear he wasn’t after sex, so she didn’t have to worry that she would have a wild night with him and then stalk him evermore.

He rolled over, a show of muscle, and the light spilling through the window spotlighted his back and the tattoo he had there. She’d seen the Torpedo Ink insignia on their vests. But this one was very detailed. The light also highlighted the terrible burns on his back. Like on his chest, someone had burned letters into his flesh. Master of Pain. The letters were distinct in spite of the fact that the skulls buried in the roots of the trees had been inked over them. She hadn’t known one could ink over burns, especially burns so severe they went layers deep.

She reached for a bottle of lotion she kept on the nightstand, shifted position and straddled his thighs, reaching up to run her hand over the exquisite ink work. “Who did this? It’s beautiful.” It was. She wasn’t going to comment on the Master of Pain and what that meant because she was afraid she already knew. She’d seen the other burn, the one in front proclaiming him the Whip Master.

“Usually don’t let bitches touch my tatt.” His voice was gruff. Muffled by the blankets. He turned his head and looked at her with cold blue eyes. So cold. Flat. Almost dead.

“Well, since I’m not a bitch most of the time, and I’m massaging your shoulders and back, I guess it’s sort of mandatory that I touch it.” She didn’t. She waited for his permission, because it meant something big to him. Huge. The tattoo was not just on his skin. It was a part of him and it had great meaning.

She actually felt him at war with himself. He didn’t show it outwardly, other than in the tension running through his body, but instinctively she knew this was another first. No one really touched his tattoo—or those burns neither of them were going to talk about.

Seychelle counted her breaths while she waited. She didn’t know whether she wanted him to give her permission or not. It would tie another thread between them, and she knew she couldn’t afford too many more. Being close to a man like Savage was dangerous. Trying to soothe him, trying to help him with the horrible monstrous demon that was eating him up inside, was a two-edged sword. She wanted to just take it all away for him, tell him she’d do whatever was necessary, be whatever he needed, but she already knew she wasn’t that woman. He was so damaged, and she was terrified for him and terrified for herself.

“Get to it, woman.”

She closed her eyes briefly, not certain if she was drowning in those dark waters already. Taking a breath, she poured the lotion into her palms and started with his shoulders. He was much taller than her and she had to lean over his body in order to work on his shoulders, but she didn’t want to sit on his butt, or just above it, where part of the tattoo was. It was very large, spreading across his back and down to the very edge of his buttocks. Thankfully, he’d kept his jeans on, but she could see the roots and skulls crawling below the low-slung material.

“Seychelle.”

“Yes?” She tried to calm her accelerating heart at his tone. He always sounded so dictatorial. So in charge.

“Slide up higher. You’re going to get tired trying to massage my shoulders like that.”

He had eyes in the back of his head. That was the only explanation. “You just said no one should touch your tattoo. I don’t want to sit on it.”

His body jerked, and for a moment she thought he might be laughing. She couldn’t imagine it, but one never knew. “You don’t want to sit on my tattoo?” he echoed. “Why? Do you think it would be disrespectful for your sweet little pussy or your prizewinning ass to rub around on my tattoo? Get serious, babe.”

“Don’t talk about my ass or my . . . er . . . pussy. You don’t know me that well.” She forced indignation into her voice and then scooted up, settling herself comfortably before her fingers dug into his shoulders extra hard. He didn’t so much as flinch. He had scars everywhere. Everywhere. And burn marks. Really awful burns aside from the letters. She didn’t ask him a single question about them.

“I talk about anything I damn well want to when it’s mine. I claimed you, remember? I’m your fucking fiancé. I wouldn’t forget that if I were you.”

She burst out laughing. Who knew that Savage would actually have a sense of humor? “Fine, but if I’m your fiancée, I should know a few things about you.”

“Before you get all nosy, it goes both ways.”

She put more pressure on his muscles, determined to loosen them. “I’m agreeable to that. It’s not like I have tons to hide.”

“Anything we say doesn’t affect the relationship. You can’t get weird because you don’t like an answer I give you, or a question I ask.”

That gave her pause. She moved over him to work the muscles she could feel were knotted and giving him trouble. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to enter into this strange game with him. It was the middle of the night, and she was draining herself by letting him take pieces of her. Still, she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. She could only try to save herself.

“I thought you were going to sleep.”

“You’re not a coward, Seychelle. Ask a question.”

“What does the tree represent?”

“It’s not a what, it’s a who. The trunk of the tree represents Czar—he’s president of Torpedo Ink. There are seventeen branches. That’s the rest of us. The crows are those that never made it out. The skulls are the ones we did in to escape, or for our country.”

She closed her eyes against the wave of rage rising in him. It swirled hot and fast, threatening to engulf her. As it was, the waves crashed over her like a tsunami, drowning her in his terrible need. He didn’t even know what he was doing to her. He’d lived with that feeling for so long he didn’t acknowledge it to himself. She saw how it stayed inside of him, waiting to flare, building slowly, waiting for a moment to erupt. Savage was a very scary man. She tried to remind herself he wasn’t a pet. He was more of a feral tiger, raging in a cage, waiting to rip anyone apart to escape.

He was telling her the truth. Whatever he had been through with the rest of his club had been horrific. There was a reason for that rage, and she didn’t want to know what it was. He was pulling her down with him, and on some level, he knew what he was doing. Unlike with the rage he couldn’t rid himself of, which he mostly ignored until it was too late, he knew that by lying on the bed with her, he was leaking his nightmares right into her.

Never made it out of what? Of where? He’d been somewhere terrible. She caught glimpses. Images. Blood pouring down his back. Stripes on flesh. Children screaming. Moaning. Crying. Chains. She smelled burning flesh. She snapped her head back and forced herself to breathe, not to go there. Not to let herself see anything but the beautiful ink work on his back, and his muscles knotted and needing her touch.

She changed the massage to soothe him, her fingers not digging so deep but moving over the tree and branches with reverence. She worked the skin over the crows with a gentle touch. The skulls rolling through the roots were given a much harsher treatment. So many of them. Some old, some newer. She didn’t want to continue their game.

“How many men have you let screw you?”

The breath rushed out of her in an angry gush. “Oh my God. Are you kidding me? You can’t ask a question like that. What if I asked you that question?”

“I’d have to answer honestly, that’s the rule we set up. I’m not a coward. You ask, I tell. You want out of the game, you have to acknowledge you’re afraid.”

“You’re being such a jerk.”

“Babe, you knew the first fuckin’ time you saw me that I was a jerk. Are you going to answer, or are you going to renege?”

She wasn’t a quitter, and her answer would only seal the deal between them. She couldn’t ever fall for this man. Not ever. He would eat her alive.

“None.” She said it fast and kept working on his back, but she could feel the color sweeping up her skin.

“Fuck. Are you lying to me?” He half turned over to try to get a glimpse of her face.

She pushed him back down on the mattress, not wanting him to look at her. “What possible reason would I have to lie? It’s my turn. How many women have you had?”

“Too many to count. Hundreds. Could be more. Probably in the thousands.”

She closed her eyes and shook her head. She always, always had to remember that answer. This man was not for her, and he never would be. He was so far out of her league. She’d be better off with perverted Joseph the parasite than him.

“Okay, then.”

She had worked her way down to the band of his jeans. “Are you feeling better?” She moved off of him to her side of the bed.

“Why haven’t you been with a man?” Savage rolled over and once more reached out to the leg that was pitted and scarred, running his hand from her calf to the top of her thigh, rubbing gently as if he could remove the marks.

“My parents were both ill. My father had a heart condition and my mother had cancer. I was around eight or nine when my father’s condition was discovered. I took care of both of them. They homeschooled me. They were wonderful, and my childhood was happy. I never felt deprived. I started working outside the home when I was a teenager to help bring in money, but I always went home as soon as I could. That didn’t leave me a lot of time to find someone.”

She wasn’t going to tell him about the many dates she’d been on. The kisses that left her feeling ice-cold. Empty. She felt safer sitting up, keeping her back to the headboard. “Have you ever been married or had a child?”

“Technically, that’s two questions, but I’ll answer because you’re being so honest. Never been married and never had a kid. You ever fantasize about bondage?”

“Bondage?” she echoed faintly. Her heart began pounding in her throat. Could he read her mind? What did he know about her? “Why are all your questions sexual?”

“You can’t ask me that until you answer my question.” There was amusement in his voice.

“Yes, but it scares me. It would definitely have to be with a partner I trusted.”

“Doesn’t the fear heighten the sexual intensity?”

“I wouldn’t know, since I’ve never tried it, and won’t with someone I don’t trust. Maybe I’ll never try it. How many women have you played this game with?” She wasn’t going to let him win. Damn him, anyway. She would answer every question as honestly as she could, and she wouldn’t be embarrassed if she ever saw him again.

“None. You’re the first and the only, and there won’t be another.”

“Why?”

He turned his head to look up at her, his fingers around her leg. “Because you’re the first woman I’ve ever met who is so fuckin’ honest you turn me inside out, and I want to know everything about you.”

That wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Looking into his blue eyes, she felt her heart stutter. His eyes were like blue flames. Intense. Burning through her. It was difficult not to see the honesty there or hear it in his voice. It was a compliment. A genuine one, and coming from him, when he clearly didn’t give them out easily, it meant too much to her.

“My turn.”

He grinned at her and she knew she was in trouble. “Are you certain you don’t want to just go to sleep?”

“No. I want to keep you talking. But you could go back to rubbing my head.”

“You’re so needy.” But her hand dropped to the top of his skull and she began a slow, gentle massage.

“Were you going to audition with the band Thursday night?”

Her stomach knotted. This could be trouble. “No.”

“Because you wanted to avoid me?” He turned his head again to look up at her.

She couldn’t look away. “Yes.”

“Because you’re attracted to me.”

“That’s one of many reasons to avoid you, yes.”

He gave her a slow grin, and this time, it lit his eyes. The smile didn’t last long, but she’d seen it and she was happy she’d answered honestly.

“You do realize how bizarre this game is, don’t you, Savage?”

“Yes. Are you going to go on Thursday night now that we’ve gotten to know one another better?”

“It’s my turn to ask a question.” She glared at him indignantly.

“You asked me if I knew how bizarre this game was and I answered you. You have to answer my question. Pay attention, babe.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“You know if you don’t come, I’m going to be here every single night until you do.”

Her fingers stopped. “That’s blackmail.”

“And you know I’ll do it.”

He sounded all too happy to annoy her.

She took a deep breath. He wanted honesty. “Savage, you know it isn’t a good idea that we spend a lot of time together. We aren’t . . .” She didn’t know what to say. “Compatible, for lack of a better word.”

“Baby, don’t fight the inevitable. I learned a long time ago not to do that. When you can’t change things, you go with the flow. We’re better friends than most people are. We might come from different worlds, but it doesn’t matter.”

“You aren’t going to get hurt. I will.”

There was a part of her that wanted him to deny that, but he didn’t. He fell silent for a long time, so long she thought about abandoning her bed and leaving him to it. She could sit in a chair for the rest of the night.

Savage suddenly turned over onto his belly, his arm sliding around her hips, pulling her down so he could rest his head on her stomach, as if seeking comfort. She couldn’t help but massage his neck. His arm was slung around her and he actually held her tight.

“Would that be worth it? You ran in front of a fucking truck to save my life. Are you saying you won’t take the chance of being my friend because somewhere down the line you might get hurt?”

“I would get hurt,” she corrected. He didn’t go without women, and it would hurt every single time she saw him with another woman, just to use her sexually.

“Our friendship wouldn’t be worth it to you?” he persisted.

There was an ache in his voice that tore at her heart, but she couldn’t just respond without really thinking it over. Would it? Savage didn’t have friends outside of Torpedo Ink. She instinctively knew that. She hadn’t called the cops the way she should have when he crept through her window, which was creepy any way you looked at it, yet she didn’t think of him as a creepy stalker.

Maybe the accident had tied them together in some way. But she knew it was far more than that. It was her personality, the way she was so drawn to him. She managed to give him whatever it was he needed. She drained off the rage and the need for violence swirling in him. More, she saw the good in him when not even he did. This wasn’t about her personally; this was about what her presence did for him. It was also what he gave her. She needed to be needed. She was desperate to give herself to someone who really needed her. That was so ingrained in her, she didn’t know how to live on a daily basis without some direction.

“You’re thinking too much,” he said, and turned his head to kiss her bare belly.

His lips just whispered over her, but it was a brand. A hot brand. She froze. “Savage. You can’t do that. I mean it. If we’re friends, you have to behave.”

“I don’t even know what that fuckin’ word means.” He turned his head, rubbing his face against that little strip of skin showing between her tank and her shorts, as if nuzzling her stomach.

She could feel the scrape of the shadow along his jaw. “Go to sleep. I mean it. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Two things and then I promise I’ll be quiet.”

She sighed and closed her eyes, her palm cupping the back of his head as he lay on her. “Just tell me. You’re not going to shut up until you get your way.”

“First, you’re coming on Thursday to audition with the band. I don’t want you to let them down on my account. Second, they’ll offer you the gig, because you sing like a fuckin’ angel. No one in their right mind would let you go. The money will be right and it’s close to home. If you want to earn more, they’ll offer you a bartending job.”

“How would you know if I can bartend?”

“The members of the band found out as much as they could about you. You were a waitress and then a bartender. Sometimes both. You don’t want to work the bar, then you could waitress for Alena. She’s got her restaurant opened and it’s always packed. So, plenty of work if you want the money.”

“Savage, you’re backing me into a corner.”

“I know. I’m good at that shit.”

His hand had slid down her thigh again, massaging the scars there. The sensation of his warm palm sent little darts of fire through her body. At the same time a shiver of awareness crept down her spine and fingers of desire danced their way up her thigh.

Did he know what he was doing? She doubted it. How could he know her reaction to just his light touch? He was rubbing her leg the way she massaged his head. Being sweet. But . . . he wasn’t sweet. Savage wasn’t the kind of man to do anything without purpose. He was very, very experienced in all things sexual. He knew she was physically attracted to him.

Narrowing her eyes, she glared at him and nearly shoved him off the bed, but then she realized he had gone to sleep. Just like that. Silently. He didn’t snore. He didn’t make a single sound. He just fell asleep, his breath coming and going from his lungs evenly.

Seychelle lay staring at the wall, her hand on his head, her heart pounding nearly as loud as the waves booming as they hit the cliffs.