SOMETIMES, WORDS CAN hurt worse than any physical infliction. Sometimes, words can be a reminder—a painful one at that. And sometimes, words can rip the scab off a god-awful wound that won’t stop fucking bleeding.

Words suck.

As day seeps into my bedroom, I’m awoken with a blasting headache and the heat of someone suffocating me.

“I sleep alone.”

“You don’t now.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You love me.”

Grabbing hold of the heavy arm, I heave it away from me. Soft snores stop as I sit up in bed. My gaze drifts down to the T-shirt I’m wearing, and I gasp in horror. I’d hoped it was a dream. It was not.

With a huff, I yank the shirt off and fold it with an obsessive neatness that I’ve perfected over the years. Ignoring the stare from the one on my bed, I pad over to the box and slide the shirt in. I don’t care that my body is nearly naked in front of him. I don’t care that he sees me trying in a desperate attempt to hide my past. His eyes follow me from the dresser with my box to my closet. I’m climbing up onto the ottoman to put the box away when I hear the springs of my bed. A cringe shudders through me when I hear heavy footsteps approach me.

The box nearly crashes to the floor when hot hands grasp my hips to hold me steady. This fucking man is so goddamned obsessed with my safety. I huff as I push the box onto the shelf.

“I’m not a china doll,” I grumble and turn in his grip.

His perfect hair is a mess, and he looks so delicious. The taut muscles in his chest are worthy of my tongue, and I lick my lips. Black eyes study me with an expression I don’t comprehend, but for some reason, I like it.

As I step off the ottoman, he refuses to let me go. I get lost in his scent and glance down to escape his hungry gaze. Big mistake. His thick cock is standing proudly in its morning glory, straining to rip through the black fabric of his boxers.

I want to touch it.

I hate myself.

Wrenching away, I stalk toward the bathroom. He follows me but doesn’t go into the bathroom with me—just remains outside the door.

“Go home, Al.”

He doesn’t respond as I shed my panties and turn the shower on. Wondering if he’s watching, my eyes flit over to the doorway, where he is looking every bit a Greek god with his sculpted body and otherworldly sexiness. His arms are folded across his chest, and he’s leaning on the side of his shoulder in the doorjamb, watching me, his coal eyes following my every move. A thrill courses through me, and I instantly reject it.

“Lark,” he growls, “tell me about you. I need to know about the real you.”

I am the me I always was. I am the me who didn’t exist for a short time all those years ago. This is the only me he’ll get.

“I hate people. There. You know me,” I smart off as I climb into the not-quite-hot spray of the shower.

He grumbles something in response, but I can’t hear him over the shower. Instead, I begin shampooing my hair. But then the curtain rips open and his black eyes skim my naked body before flashing up to meet my gaze.

“Meet me at my apartment in an hour. I’ll make breakfast.”

Damn him and his bossy ways.

“Fine. Now either get in or get out,” I snap.

After an exaggerated pause, he closes the curtain and gets out.

I ignore the disappointment.

I chew on my lip as I stand in front of his apartment with my hand poised to knock. Something keeps me from actually making the sound though. But when I hear Pedro’s door open, I rap on the door with urgency.

“You must be Lark,” a sultry voice purrs from behind me.

I spin around to see the beautiful woman from the night before. The woman who was riding Omar like a bull while Pedro watched. When I realize she came from his apartment without Omar in tow, I know she’s a ho.

“Yep,” I clip out.

I’m saved from her friendliness when the door swings open. Omar flashes me a smile, but once he sees the woman, his brown eyes darken.

Sorry, buddy. She slept with the disease fest across the hallway.

“Lovenia, have you met Lark?” he asks, his eyes still trained on her.

She slides her hand up my shoulder and swipes my still-damp hair out of the way. “We just met. Om—”

“Omar, can you go check on my bacon?” Al asks, interrupting her, and then gives them each a pointed look.

I turn to look at Lovenia once more, and understanding passes over her features. The way they all spoke without speaking pisses me right the fuck off. I would leave them to their little threesome, but the smell of bacon has already lured me in.

Al steps out into the threshold and takes my hand. “Come on, Twiggy.”

Twiggy?

Lovenia giggles and scoots past us into the apartment. Her tight, red dress hugs her luscious curves, which makes me jealous. I feel like a little girl compared to this woman. Why I care, I don’t know. But when Al’s dark eyes stay trained on mine and his warm hand squeezes mine, I feel a small victory.

“If you want me to keep this breakfast date of ours, I suggest you don’t call me that again,” I warn.

He chuckles and dips down to plant a kiss on my forehead. “I’ll call you Twiggy until you stop being a twig,” he smirks. “Now come inside and let me fatten you up.”

I sigh in frustration but let him lead me into the apartment. Omar has Lovenia pressed against the refrigerator and is kissing the hell out of her. She makes me sick. He seems like a nice enough guy—clearly doesn’t deserve someone who would sleep with Pedro. Pedro is the bottom-of-the-barrel pond scum.

That makes Lovenia a bottom feeder.

“Plates are in that cabinet next to the lovebirds,” Al tells me as he tends to the food on the stove.

I ignore the slurping of the couple that is every bit magazine-cover worthy and pull out four plates. After I set the plates next to the stove, Al turns it off and faces me.

“You look nice today, Lark.”

His simple compliment warms me, but I don’t let it show.

“Looks can be deceiving,” I wink.

He rolls his eyes and begins dishing up food. “Extra eggs for Twiggy.”

I snatch my plate and stalk over to the table. The lovebirds have broken apart and are playing grab-ass now while they fill their plates. Al moves around the kitchen as if he’d been born to be there. At seeing him as he effortlessly steps around the two horsing around and pours glasses of orange juice, something tugs at my heart.

He’s so content. Happy, even. I envy his ease at life. Some of us struggle to be normal enough to eat eggs.

When he saunters over carrying our juice, I grill him.

“So, what do you do for work? You act like following me is your job,” I mouth off. Then I shove a bite of eggs into my mouth.

His eyes widen, and a utensil that Omar drops clatters in the kitchen behind him. “I work—”

Lovenia finishes for him. “They work for the government. It’s classified, sweetie.”

I hate his woman. Al nods, but I don’t believe any of them. It’s all bullshit. The three of them are bizarre as hell.

“And I’m the Queen of Fucking England. It’s okay. I thought we were becoming friends, Just Al. Looks like we’re just acquaintances,” I tell him snootily before I shovel more eggs in.

“Oh, sweetie, I’d say by the way he watches you, he’d love to be more than just friends. I bet you fuck like an animal,” Lovenia says.

“That’s enough, Lovenia,” Al growls.

She has the sense to look embarrassed and innocently bats her eyelashes at him. “Just playing Cupid, Al.”

I scoff at her words. “Save your arrows, Cupid. I don’t fall in love. You’d have to have a heart left for that.”

Her brows fly to her hairline, but then she schools her features. “I’m making you two my special project. I would be willing to bet Al’s top-secret job on my ability that I’ll get that heart of yours beating again for that hunk over there. You can thank me later.”

“Lovenia,” Omar and Al warn in unison.

She smiles sweetly once again, but I am onto her game.

“Can you pass the salt please?” she asks me as if we didn’t just have the weirdest conversation.

I take a deep breath and pass it to her.

Who are these people and why are they suddenly in my life?