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EIGHT

DASH

Ivy places a mug of coffee in front of me before sinking into the chair opposite. Her smile is warm, but I can see the worry beneath, even as she reaches for her own cup. Seren grabs for my kutte, Riot smothering her hand in his to stop her sticky fingers from touching the leather.

“Thanks,” I say to Ivy.

Since things changed in the club, I’ve been spending a lot of time between Riot’s apartment and Mace’s, not only strategising but also feeding back information about whatever shit Crank is up to.

But that’s not why I’m here this morning.

All I can think about is what happened last night. I didn’t sleep more than an hour, going over everything she said.

Every word out of Dayna’s mouth is a crossbow bolt to the chest. She wields words like weapons, waiting for them to wound. I’m not a sadist. I don’t enjoy being cut, so there’s a part of me that thinks I should just walk away.

And maybe I would have if she hadn’t told me she isn’t worth caring about. She didn’t say it for attention. I’m not even sure she intended to let it slip, but fuck, it sits in my chest like a weight.

And then there was that fucking message. I would have given up if it wasn’t for that. The apology wrapped in a vulnerability that I don’t know how to ease.

“You fucked her, didn’t you?” Riot covers the baby’s ears as he says it, as if Seren isn’t already hearing this shit all day long.

I glare at him and he shakes his head. “Brother, we warned you. That girl is crazy.”

Anger snaps through me like a rubber band pulled too tight, but my words are quiet and sharp. “Don’t call her that. She’s not crazy.”

I don’t know why I’m defending her. I don’t owe her shit, and yet I want to deflect those wounds from her because they’re the ones she seems to keep in her heart.

Worthless.

Crazy.

Hysterical.

Pathetic.

It pisses me off that she believes those things.

Ivy glares at him. “Yeah, don’t call her that. She’s not crazy, Nate. She’s a good person.” Ivy turns to me. “Tread carefully with her, Dash. Dayna puts up this wall to protect herself, but she’s not what she seems.”

“I’m getting that,” I mutter.

“She likes you.”

This time it’s my brow lifting. “Trust me when I tell you she’s not interested in me.”

“Let me guess, she pushed you away like you had some sort of flesh-eating disease and hid behind outrageous and poorly timed humour?” I don’t say anything. My silence speaks for itself. “Dayna’s been hurt.”

That has me squaring my shoulders. She flinched when I went to touch her, as if she thought I was going to hit her. The thought that someone may have laid hands on her has my blood boiling. “What happened?” I growl.

Ivy’s smile is sad she rolls her mug between her hands. “That’s not my story to tell. Just… Don’t give up on her. Not yet.”

I try to focus on the conversation as it moves on to other things, but Dayna consumes my thoughts. There is a limit to how much shit I will take—that’s the case for everyone—but I think she’s banking on that. The more she pushes me, the more she hopes I’ll disappear.

And I probably should.

But the problem is she’s in my head, and under my skin. I shouldn’t be in this deep already, but there’s something there, between us, a spark, an ember.

Hope of something.

And that’s already too fucking much.

Too dangerous.

Too hard to ignore.

My phone buzzes, and I drag it out of my pocket. The name on the screen surprises me. Dayna. I open the message, not sure what to expect, and read it once, twice.

Then stand.

It’s an olive branch, a bloodied hand between us. And fuck, I want to take it. I shouldn’t. She’s fucking heartbreak and pain dressed in a sassy mouth, but then I remember the way her voice trembled when she told me she wasn’t worth it. And I’m fucking gone.

“I got to run.” I drain the last of my coffee, sliding the mug back on the table. “Thanks for the drink, Ivy.”

“Problem?” Riot asks, his eyes sharp.

I don’t know how to answer that, so I shake my head. “It’s all good. See you tomorrow.”

I’m rereading the message as I walk out to my bike. It’s polite, devoid of Dayna’s usual sharpness and snarky tone. Which fucking worries me, but also makes me wonder if she’s trying.

It’s an apology wrapped in uncertainty.

I climb on my bike, pull on my helmet and hit the road. The ride to her place feels like it takes an eternity and by the time I stop outside her building, I’m vibrating with tension.

I pass through the front door, scowling at the broken lock, and scan the mailboxes in the foyer to find her name.

There’s no lift in the building and her flat is on the fourth floor. I’m breathing heavily by the time I step onto her floor, but when I knock on the door, I have this sudden need to lay eyes on her.

There’s no answer. So I knock again. I’m not leaving this flat until I know if that message meant something more.

I’m about to call her when the door opens. Her eyes flare wide, as if she didn’t think I’d come.

I scan her face, looking for new wounds that might have landed since I last saw her, but she looks beautiful. No makeup, her hair tangled into a messy knot, soft leggings and bare feet.

She’s still wearing my hoodie and that unlocks something primal inside me.

“Shit,” she hisses. “You didn’t think to message and say you are on the way? A girl likes to get ready before being confronted by the embodiment of sin.”

She darts down the narrow hallway, leaving me standing in the door like a moron.

The embodiment of sin?

Fuck me.

I follow inside, shutting the door behind me. The lock doesn’t catch the first time, nor the second. Does anything in this fucking building work?

Finally, I get it shut and move through her space, taking in everything.

It’s small, but she’s tried to make it homely.

There are little touches everywhere, pictures and ornaments, soft furnishings and candles.

When I step into the living room, my hoodie is draped over the end of the couch as if she tore it off the moment she stepped into the room.

She’s now bustling around in the tiniest fucking top I’ve ever seen, searching the room like she’s on a treasure hunt.

“Your front door is broke,” I say, leaning against the wall, out of the way of the whirlwind of motion.

She waves a hand. “It works ninety per cent of the time.”

Is she fucking serious? “The door is broke downstairs, which means anyone can just walk into the building, and now, you’re telling me that your front door lock—the thing standing between you and danger—only works now and again?”

She lifts her head to look at me and I clock the stunned surprise in her eyes. Has no one ever cared enough about her to worry about these things?

I see the moment she brings down the shutters. “No, I said it works most of the time. Ninety percent isn’t now and again, Dash.”

She drags open a drawer under her unit, which has the saddest TV I’ve ever seen. It can’t be more than twenty-four inches.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for a jumper.”

“You had a jumper. You were wearing my hoodie.”

There’s a pause before she scowls at me. “I can’t give it back to you if I’m wearing it, can I?”

“I don’t want it back.”

“Oh.” She frowns, then straightens. “Then why are you here?”

I’m confused. And I get the feeling that might be my default setting when it comes to her.

“Babe, you didn’t send me that message to give me my fucking hoodie.”

Her cheeks flush just a fraction, just enough to let me know I’m right. I don’t know what made her send it, but I want to find out.

“Well, I did intend to give it back, but it’s warm and cosy. And they don’t make women’s clothes like that. I mean, you can have it back if you want it, obviously—it’s yours—but…” She trails off.

“Dayna.” I say her name low, barely a caress of breath.

She sighs. “I wanted to apologise. I was so horrible to you last night, and you were just taking care of me.”

Fuck, that claws into my chest in a way it shouldn’t. “It wasn’t a favour, Dayna, and you weren’t horrible.”

“Right.” She winces. “Except I kind of was. I just… I don’t want you to hate me.”

The way she shrinks into herself is worse than any injury I’ve ever sustained. Every time I’ve met Dayna, she’s been bold, vibrant, confident, but seeing her vulnerable, broken down, and uncertain is far more real than any side of her I’ve ever seen.

The words hang between us, and she shifts awkwardly, as if she wants to disappear into the walls.

Fuck that. And fuck this.

I cross the room until I’m right in front of her. She swallows as if there’s a lump in her throat. As if she’s trying to choke down her feelings.

“I don’t hate you,” I say. How the fuck could she think that?

“You should,” she whispers.

Ivy’s warning comes back to haunt me, and I let myself see her. Really see her. Not the front she gives to the world. Not the sharp words she thinks protect her.

Just Dayna.

And it fucking gores me. The hope in her eyes. The relief that I came. The fear that I might actually hate her.

It burns through me. Who the fuck made her think she was nothing?

I need to touch her, to feel her warmth, so I trail my knuckles over her cheek, watching her breath hitch.

I want to kiss her desperately. Every part of me aches to, but she has that deer-in-headlights look. “I could never hate you.”

“You don’t know me well enough to say that.”

“I don’t need to. I see you.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. I realise that the moment the words leave my fucking mouth.

She blinks once, twice, and then steps back. I lose the softness of her skin as she ducks around me.

My hoodie is thrust into my chest. “There you go. I wasn’t sure whether you got it at some sort of special bike shop. Or if you needed it… um… but thank you for letting me borrow it.”

Her arms wrap around her belly, as if trying to shield from an attack only she can see coming. I open the hoodie up, staring at the material.

Then I pull it over her head and settle it back into place. She’s frowning.

“What are you doing?”

“It looks better on you.”

I swear she’s not breathing when she peers up at me.

“Oh. I mean… right. You know you’re not getting this back now. I tried to return it, but now, it’s mine.”

My lips twitch. She’s rambling again.

“I don’t want it back.”

She turns away, fussing with the hoodie like it’s got all the answers. “Anyway, you probably have things to do. I’m just talking nonsense. Sorry I dragged you over here for no reason.”

She thinks I’m leaving. Cute. She doesn’t expect me to stay.

“I don’t have a single thing to do.”

Her brows come together. “I don’t believe that.”

I reach for the remote on the coffee table and sit on her couch like I’ve done it a hundred times.

“So, don’t, but are we watching an action? Thriller? Don’t tell me you like that cheesy romcom shit.”

She doesn’t move, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far.

“What are you doing?”

“Picking a movie for us to watch.” She’s staring at me like I’ve just sacrificed a dog in her living room. “I’m not into those chick flick things, but I’ll suck it up if that’s what you want to watch.”

“Dash… seriously, what are you doing?”

“We’re watching a movie as soon as you pick one.”

I focus on the screen, giving her a moment to breathe. Quietly, she says, “I like horror.”

That surprises me. “The girl who lives alone with broken locks watches horror?”

Her lips twitch and, fuck, I want her to do that again. “I know, right? Crazy. If you were expecting me to be a hearts and flowers kind of girl, I’m sorry to disappoint.”

I let my gaze roam over her in a lazy sweep. “I’m not disappointed.” That heat rises in her cheeks again and she fiddles with the cuffs of my hoodie. “Sit.”

I expect her to argue, but she doesn’t. She sinks down next to me, careful to keep a little distance. Fuck that. I toe off my boots, as if I belong here, and when I sink back against the cushions, I pull her against me. She resists for a fraction of a second before she lets herself relax into me.

The smell of her soap fills my nose, and she’s soft, warm against my side. I flick through the menu, until I find something, and press play.

“Just so you know,” she says, “I really do like horror, but I’m also going to cling to you like a baby and probably scream like I’m being murdered.” She winces. “Which I know is annoying.”

I pull her closer, pressing a kiss into her hair, as if it’s the most natural fucking thing in the world to do. She melts a little into my touch, and it feels like a victory—a small one.

“You don’t have to worry, Dayna. I’ll protect you.”

And I’m not just talking about the movie. She has been hurt, but shit, under that all I see is a woman fighting not to drown. I want to be that hand into the water. I want to peel back those layers and see the real her.

Her hand rests on my chest, her fingers twisting in my shirt. “You already have.”

And fuck if that doesn’t break me wide open.

We’re two movies deep when her breathing evens out and her fingers loosen in my shirt.

I turn the volume down, careful not to wake her, and just hold her.

She’s safe. She’s warm. And I’m not fucking leaving.