Page 32 of Saxon

I hear an engine behind me, and then brakes, and then a door opening and closing.

"That's Petsy." His voice is close, and soft.

"Patsy?"

"No, Petsy, with an ‘e.’ She's an attention whore." he laughs. "Scratch her chin."

I do so, vigorously scratching under the horse’s chin, and she extends her head flapping her lips and rolling her eyes, whinnying comically—the more I scratch, the sillier she gets.

"I didn't mean to upset you," he says, after a minute.

My laughter at Petsy's antics subsides. "It's not you. Or, well, it is. It's just complicated."

"I get it. Nothing fucks with your head so much as family bullshit."

"Got that right," I growl and shake my head. "I don't want to talk about my father."

"Don't have to."

"Do these people after us have my name or whatever?"

"Not yet, but they will. We gotta get ahead of that. I need to see Luka. Get this tracker out of me."

"And then?" I turn and look at him. "I'm not here to tell you what to do, but it seems to me like if you're always reacting, you won't ever get ahead. If you were asking me, which I realize you aren't, I'd tell you to figure out how to get ahead of them."

Saxon nods. "You're right. I have some ideas, but until I can stop them from tracking every move I make, nothing will make a difference. We've been here too long as it is. Time to go."

I give Petsy one last chin scratch. "Bye, girl."

Saxon takes my hand and leads me to the car, a shiny black Range Rover. "After this is handled, no matter what does or doesn't happen with us, you can come here and ride whenever you want. Shit, take your pick, and that horse is yours. God knows they need someone to ride them."

"You don't?"

He shrugs as he starts the car. "Nah, not really. Not in years. Used to love it, though."

"Well, maybe you can love it again. With me."

He nods. "Maybe. Maybe."

Hot and cold. The man is complicated as fuck. Terse, streetwise, hard-eyed, quick to shoot one second, passionate and erotic and sensual the next, and then distant and tense after that. I can't keep up with the man.

And that’s saying something—usually, it's men who can't keep up with me.

What am I getting myself into?

Shattered

Saxon