Page 68 of Beware of Dog (Lean Dogs Legacy #6)

It was almost ninety degrees on the beach, but much cooler in the shade of the tall, interlaced palms that ringed the pool deck.

A breeze rocked the hammock, a gentle side-to-side motion that kept her perched in the pleasurable space between asleep and awake.

She could doze off if she wanted, or crack her eyes and watch the waves lap at the white sand; see the shimmer of heat mirages where the gulls argued over tidbits of crab.

Cass lifted her head—her cheek peeled away from Shep’s pectoral with the gummy sound of sweaty skin—and then resettled, a little higher, so she could see the beach better.

Two gulls were arguing over one of the stale hotdog buns Shep had tossed out onto the sand that morning. “Look at that. You started a fight.”

“Hm,” he hummed, shifting his legs so the hammock swayed a little more. “Those bastards are looking for an excuse. S’not my fault.”

She grinned, then turned to kiss his chest, just because she could.

Ian’s Key West “cottage” had proved to be a rambling, coral-pink mini mansion, complete with chef’s kitchen, sauna, in-ground pool with jewel-toned tile surround, fire pit, and, Shep’s favorite feature, this macrame hammock strung up between two palms in the shady grove where the grass lawn gave way to beach.

It was where they tended to end up in the late afternoons.

Mornings were slow, and lazy, lingering over coffee and breakfast in their pajamas, sometimes putting on a movie on the massive flat-screen afterward, sometimes going back to bed; neither of them was up for anything athletic in the bedroom yet, but they could touch, and feel, and go slow, and enjoy being alive with one another, scarred and healing, yes, but able to offer each other a gentle sort of pleasure.

Shep had taken up swimming laps as an alternative to weights and running while his stab wound healed.

But Cass’s shoulder was still too sore to do more than wade around in the shallow end or float around on the inflatable orange creamsicle raft they’d found in a plastic footlocker up against the back of the house.

There’d been a white Jag with a sunroof at the airstrip when they landed two weeks ago, and they used it to ride into town for groceries: fresh oranges, and bananas, and mangoes; skirt steak that Shep cooked on the grill and they slathered in chimichurri; chicken skewers loaded with onions, and sliced bell pepper; watermelon salad made with cucumbers, and feta, and spicy red onions, doused in vinegar.

There was a little coffeehouse that baked incredible blueberry muffins, and a corner bar that didn’t check IDs and served heaping plates of loaded nachos.

Neither of them drank much, still on meds; they slept often, and whenever they felt like it, and despite the pains and twinges that pulled at their bodies, it all felt like a dream.

Shep had never been clingier. Whether fresh from the shower, both of them dressed in soft, lightweight cotton, or in the pool, slippery with clean water and smelling of chlorine, or here, like this, glued together with sweat scented with cocoa butter sunscreen, they were always touching.

She’d forgotten what it was like to subsist off her own body heat alone.

Slowly, the palm shadows stretched long across the sand, and sunbeams flirted through the fronds overhead, warm on the side of her face. Shep’s fingers trailed up and down the length of her spine, tips walking over the ridge of each vertebra.

Cass angled her head so she could see the pink, still-healing line of scar tissue under his last rib where a Diablo’s knife had pierced him.

He’d been so hopped up on adrenaline he hadn’t even felt the injury; Devin had been the one to note he was bleeding, and he’d passed out shortly after.

Mercy had carried him out of the townhouse and to the waiting van.

Cass ghosted her fingertips over the mark, a tidy little line the color of Pepto Bismol where Dr. Lawrence had cleaned up the edges and stitched it shut.

Shep’s stomach sucked in, an automatic reaction, before he exhaled and relaxed beneath her touch.

His hand kept moving, its slow climb and descent of her backbone.

“Do you regret it?” she asked.

“What? Getting stabbed?”

“Getting married.”

A pause. “Cassie.” The emotion in his voice drew her attention more powerfully than any demand that she look at him. When she shifted, and propped her chin on the back of her hand so she could see his face, she wanted to take back her question; he looked like she’d been the one to stab him.

He frowned. “Why would you even ask that?”

Maybe, she reflected, life had been so chaotic and dangerous since moving to America she didn’t know what to do with a spell of perfect peace. Or maybe she was just stupid.

“I don’t know.” She sat up as best she could, and clutched at his waist when the hammock swayed dangerously.

When it had settled, she said, “It all happened very fast. We were together, yes, but we only got married because the A.D.A. said it would help during cross-examination, and Raven told you to go buy a ring, and…” She trailed off when he wound his hand in a lock of hair that had slid forward off her shoulder.

He wound it round his knuckles and buffed its shiny surface with his thumb, expression etched with deep regret. “Babe,” he said, gently reprimanding. “You think I married you just for your friend’s trial?”

“You wanted Sig to go to jail.”

“I wanted Sig dead . Immediately. Just for drugging you at that party. The only reason I went along with the whole trial bullshit was because it’s the way you wanted to do it.”

Cass wanted to be shocked, but wasn’t. She knew Shep. Knew the Dogs in general. No regular rules applied, polite, societal, criminal, or otherwise. Still, she asked, “You would have killed a college student for spiking my drink?”

“Yes,” he said, unselfconscious, and not at all sorry.

“Okay.” Her heart thumped a little harder. “And you married me because…?”

His eyes bugged. Are you serious? “What the hell else was I gonna do? I love you. I’m with you.” He made a hand gesture like he thought the next step was self-explanatory.

“Even if there hadn’t been a trial…”

“I woulda proposed eventually no matter what.” He let her hair slide through his fingers, then twisted his finger in a single curl. Tipped his head sideways. “Having second thoughts?”

“Never. Are you?”

“No.”

They stared at one another.

Shep said, “This is officially the stupidest conversation we’ve ever had.”

Cass snorted…and then dissolved into giggles, even though the shaking hurt her shoulder.

“I can’t believe you asked me if I regretted marrying you on our honeymoon . You’re insane. Come here.”

She leaned down, and put her face in his palm as he reached for her. The pull and throb in her shoulder was well worth the pleasure of kissing him.

Honeymoon kisses, she’d realized, were not the same as first kisses, nor secretly-sleeping-together kisses, nor even wedding day kisses.

These were lush, indulgent, unhurried and laced with the satisfaction of, at least to her, permanence.

She felt the cool metal of his ring against her cheek, and basked in the knowledge that they had plenty of time, the rest of their lives, and that they were allowed this.

No more secrets, no more hiding, no more sweaty palms worrying what a member of her family would say if they caught them twined together like morning glory vines.

She settled her weight on his chest, mindful of his scar, and angled her head, soft, and receptive and welcoming.

His hands slid down to cup her ass, fingers slipping up beneath the hems of her terrycloth shorts. He hummed appreciatively against her lips. “You’re getting good at that.”

She rolled his bottom lip between her teeth, and he chuckled and squeezed her ass in playful retaliation.

It was easy, like this, to forget what had almost happened.

To set aside the mental image of her blood-soaked wedding dress, and the memories of him swathed in bandages beneath stiff hospital sheets.

Cass cupped his jaw in her hands, thumb smoothing at his crow’s feet, and ducked to kiss him again, more urgently this time, wanting him again, always.

Both of them froze when they heard the low purr of an engine pulling up the driveway.

Dread seized her belly, so tight and sudden she thought she’d be sick. “No,” she murmured, sitting back—

And sending the hammock into an unrecoverable spin.

“Ah!”

“Shit!”

Cass landed flat on her back, and Shep landed on top of her. He got his hands up to brace his fall, so he didn’t flatten her, but they both let out matching hisses and grunts of pain.

“Jesus.” He sat up on his knees. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

On the other side of the house, muted by distance, the distinct clump of a car door closing echoed off the garage doors.

Shep got to his feet, grabbed her hands, and hauled her up. “Come on, get behind me.”

“Jesus.” Cass was so tired of being afraid.

Of every peaceful moment getting wrecked.

She pressed her forehead to Shep’s sweat-damp back.

“Let’s run. Come on. We’ll go down the beach.

” She hooked her fingers in the waistband of his swim trunks and tugged.

“Please.” Her pulse was racing, her head swimming.

Her shoulder tweaked painfully, the wound inflamed by adrenaline. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

It felt like the universe was conspiring to ruin their happiness, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

The muscles in his back shifted, and she could tell he was twisting around to look at her. “Baby—”

She tipped her head back, and saw the warring impulses on his face. He wanted to stand and face whoever it was, fight though he was bare-chested and empty-handed. But he would run if she took his hand and demanded it. A staggering degree of loyalty, one she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel worthy of.