Page 93 of Unconditionally Yours

My throat tightens. I want to reach for him, want to explain that he’s not a piece in a rotation, that he’s Jett, and Jett is more than a part, he’s wild and dangerous and beautiful just the way he is.

But he doesn’t give me the chance.

“I brought you food,” he says, like it’s the last thread holding him together. “I brought you fucking ketchup, Delilah. And you sat there smiling with my come still on your thighs and told me you belong to other men.”

My mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

“Should’ve known better,” he says, voice shredded. “You’re not mine.” He looks at me like I already left. “You’re nobody’s, Delilah. Not even your own.”

Then he turns.

And leaves me with the fries going cold.

And the ketchup bleeding down the walls.

And the ache of something precious cracking open in my chest.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Jett

I don’t even know what the fuck I’m doing now. She was in my hands. In my mouth. Under my fucking ribs. She took it all. Every jagged edge I’ve ever sharpened to cut people out, and begged for more. And I gave it to her. Not just the brutal kind of fucking I usually hand out. No. I gave her something real.

And then she opened her mouth and gave me names.

Benji. Hank. Rhys.

Fuck this.

I tear down the back roads so fast gravel kicks up behind me. The wind in my face should cool me down, rip the heat out of my skin, but it doesn’t do shit.

Is she still sitting on that motel bed I fucked her in? Still tasting me while ketchup packets congeal around her like blood? A fucked-up picnic of whatever the hell we almost were.

I take the corner too fast. Let the back tire slide a little. Feels better than thinking.

I don’t even make a conscious decision before pulling into the dirt lot of the shittiest bar in town. The kind of place with cracked pool cues, crusty beer taps, and at least ten assholes ready to throw fists with any motherfucker who holds eye contact too long.

I am that motherfucker right now.

But none of them are whoever the fuckers Benji and Hank are… or Rhys. Dr. Hartwell?

I should fight someone. I should throw a punch so hard I forget how her fucking laugh felt on my tongue. Instead I call the number they gave me in anger management. Because I’m trying.

“Crisis hotline how can I help you?” A woman says like this is customer service and not the thin line between me and a felony.

“I’m about to kill someone,” I say.

“Patient number?” she asks like I said I’m having a panic attack and not about to unload on a whole bar.

“Ryk237.” I look toward the side of the building. A couple’s fucking against the cinderblock wall. Her leg’s around his hip. Her head’s thrown back. She looks like Delilah.

God. Fuck. Her fucking name.

“Please hold.” The line clicks.

Great. Guess murder isn’t a priority tonight.

“Where are you, Mr. Ryker?” Rhys’s voice comes over the line.