Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 144908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144908 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
He sat on the edge of the bed and bent to take off his motorcycle boots. He’d had them a long time, and they were worn, but comfortable. Right now, he felt the solid weight of them, but it was too damn much trouble to get them off. Bending wasn’t his favorite move.
Ambrielle got up and came to kneel at his feet. “Let me, Kir, you lie back. I’ll do this and help you get your jeans off. That’s why you were so angry about me jumping on your back to protect you. You wanted me to see what all of you were doing.”
He groaned and threw one arm over his eyes as he carefully stretched his body across the bed from his knees up. With his free hand, he unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. “At that point I wasn’t thinking about you learning how to blend in with the club, Ambrielle, I was thinking about losing you. So no, I didn’t want you to see what anyone was doing. I wanted you to get your ass under the truck where you’d be safe. You nearly gave me a heart attack. I almost spun around, which would have put the kid in harm’s way. As it was, I half turned, shoving him toward the truck as I took us down.”
There was real pain in his voice he couldn’t conceal. The thought of losing her when he’d just had her for such a short period of time had been paralyzing.
“Why do you get to protect me and everyone else, but no one gets to protect you?”
That damn voice of hers was back to trembling. She had his boots off and was working his jeans off his ass, so he had to lift up to make it easier for her to slide them over his hips and down his legs.
“That’s the way it is, Ambrielle. You have to accept that in me just the way you have to accept the rules of the club. It’s who I am. If you can’t accept who I am, you married the wrong fucking man. And you can never, under any circumstances, ever pull a stunt like that again. I have to have your word of honor.”
“Master . . .”
“I mean it, Ambrielle. You knew there was going to come a time when you saw who I was, who you really married. Well, babe, you’re looking at him. If you can’t live with me as I really am, you’d better know now. I protect you. You don’t leap on my back and fucking take a hundred years off my life. I know what the hell I’m doing. I have a plan. You do what I say. When you’re good at this shit, we’ll discuss what you’re going to be doing ahead of time. What you’ll never be doing is leaping in front of guns. Do you get me?”
He didn’t look at her. Either she got it or she didn’t.
“Yes.”
“Then give me your fucking word, and I expect you to keep it.”
“I give you my word, I won’t do that again.”
She didn’t hesitate, and that was a good sign. It meant she got him, and she could live with him.
“Don’t screw up again. When I tell you to do something, you do it. I won’t be able to take you with me if you mess up, promises or not, Ambrielle. You do what I say. You can’t be a loose cannon when we’re working. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to sleep.”
“I’m calling that doctor of yours. You’re bleeding.”
“I don’t give a fuck.” And he didn’t. He was too damn tired to protest.
SIXTEEN
Leonard Stoddard, Reese Fender’s parole officer, lived in a modest three-bedroom house at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in a family-friendly neighborhood. His car wasn’t in the least flashy, and most of his furniture came from IKEA. Master studied the large picture window off the front porch. He could look right through the glass into the living room, straight to the stone fireplace.
“If he’s taking money, he’s not spending it on his home,” he observed.
“If he was married,” Ambrie said, “she’s been gone awhile or she’s a slob. The laundry is piled up on the sofa and another chair. He’s got dirty dishes sitting on the coffee table in front of the television screen. There’s a pizza box on the floor.”
Master pulled his gaze from the house he was watching to the woman lying on her belly beside him on the rooftop of the home directly across the street from Stoddard’s. She wore black leggings, a tight-fitting tank under an equally tight-fitting jacket, thin black gloves and soft-soled dark boots. Her hair was woven into a braid. Just looking at her put a lump in his throat—not a good thing when his throat still felt raw and swollen.