Page 60 of Blackwood

I nod. “It’s okay. You can go. Alyssa’s going to keep you safe. She’s nice, you can trust her. And you want to know a secret? She always finds the best ice cream shops.”

Ollie hesitates, and then finally lets go. Tiny fingers slide off my jacket as he reaches for Alyssa’s hand.

She wraps her arm around him and lifts him off of the ground. “I’ll stay with him all the way home,” she says over her shoulder.

And just like that, he’s gone.

Chapter 22

BELLA

San Francisco, California

517 Days Since Zeke’s Death

I shut the hotel door behind me with a soft click, sliding the bolt into place. The suite is dark, too dark. I know I left the bathroom light on. And the blackout curtains? I never close them all the way. I like the view of the Bay. Like knowing what’s outside.

CLICK.

A soft glow spills from the side table lamp.

I turn, gun raised in a breath. He doesn’t even blink.

“Laing,” I snap, heart slamming against my ribs. “What the fuck are you doing here? This is exactly how you get yourself shot.”

He doesn’t answer, not right away. Just leans back in the armchair, legs spread, one arm slung over the side like he’s posing for a sin-stained Renaissance painting. Shadows dance behind him, curling like smoke. His shirt is unbuttoned just enough to make me want to curse.

That damn tattoo.

The dragon, black ink and menace, starts low on his hip and cuts a path up across the carved ridges of his abs. It coils around his ribs like a claim, muscles flexing beneath its scaled body. Thebeast slithers up the column of his neck, sharp and proud, like it’s warning me he’s dangerous even when he’s silent.

And fuck, it works. He looks like sex and sabotage, and my pulse is a goddamn traitor.

“How’s the boy?” he asks, voice low and rough.

I hesitate. My grip eases on the gun.

“Safe. Alyssa has him. She found his parents.”

Laing nods once, then slowly stands. “You did good tonight.”

I open my mouth to throw a smart-ass comment back, but he’s already closing the space between us.

“I’m not here to fucking talk, Iz.”

I barely get out a gasp before he’s got me pinned against the wall, gun dropped on the carpet. His hands lock around my wrists before slamming them up over my head. His mouth is demanding—rough, claiming, teeth scraping and tongue plunging. No softness. Just heat and hunger and command.

“Back at the docks,” he growls against my lips, “you said I was rude.”

“You called me a bitch,” I shoot back, breathless.

“Because you are.”

His thigh slides between mine, forcing them apart as my breath stutters.

“You like being treated like one, don’t you?”

My hips betray me, grinding into the pressure of his leg before I can stop them.