Page 14 of Kane

I headed downstairs, rubbing the back of my neck and muttering curses under my breath.

Get a grip, Beckett.

She was my prisoner. Leverage. Bait.

I had no business wondering what those ocean-blue eyes would look like when she was coming apart under my mouth.

I tried to work all day. I really fucking did. Emails, contract negotiations, team schedules, vendor payments—none of it stuck. I kept thinking about her curled up in that bed, breathing slowly and evenly, skin soft and untouched by this world. And I kept hearing her voice, full of fight and heat.

At night, I told myself I was going to sleep in one of the spare rooms. That was the plan. The smart choice. That was sane.

But by midnight, I’d convinced myself I needed to check on her. Just for security. To make sure she hadn’t tried to climb out the window or shove a fork in a wall socket.

Security, I told myself again. That was all.

I unlocked the bedroom door quietly, stepped into the dim room, and stood there for a long minute.

Moonlight spilled through the blinds in long silver lines, falling across the bed where she lay curled on her side, her hands tucked beneath her cheek, hair fanned out across my pillow like liquid silk.

My breath caught.Fuck, she was beautiful.

I stood there like a fuckin’ fool. Just staring at her. Then I peeled off my shirt, shoved down my jeans, and stood in nothing but boxer briefs while calling myself twenty kinds of idiot. I shouldn’t get in that bed. I knew it. But my body moved before my brain could argue.

The mattress dipped beneath my weight as I lay down, staying on the edge, facing her back, rigid with restraint.

Then she moved. As if she felt the heat of my body and instinctively curled toward it. She made a soft sound in her sleepand pressed her face against my chest like she’d been doing it forever.

I froze. And then—I broke.

My arm came around her without conscious thought, dragging her close. Her body molded to mine, and she fit perfectly. Soft. Warm. My hand spread over her back, holding her tight and her round, juicy ass tucked against my hip, a temptation almost too difficult to resist.

I told myself I wouldn’t touch her.

But holding her didn’t count.

I fell asleep with Savannah tucked against me, breathing her in like a man starved of oxygen.

Awake before dawn, I slipped out of bed and locked the door behind me. No one saw. No one knew.

Except me.

The next night, I did the same damn thing.

And the one after that.

By the fourth morning, I’d stopped pretending I was going to stay away. I was fully aware I was fucked.

Bookshell Cove wasan old corner store that sat tucked between a hair salon and a little deli, all weathered brick and sun-faded blue trim, dusty windows, and enough paperbacks packed inside to sink a boat.

Wind chimes jingled above the door as I stepped inside. It was one of those places that smelled like it had soaked up years of stories and the comfort they brought.

“Well, well,” came a familiar voice. “If it isn’t my favorite pain in the ass.”

Gloria Landry stood behind the register. Her dark hair, with a few streaks of gray, was twisted into a knot on top of her head. Her smile was wide enough to light the place without electricity. She wore a loose cotton dress and sandals, and despite being half my size and five times less intimidating, she looked at me like she’d raised me herself.

“Morning,” I said gruffly.

She put her hands on her hips.