Out of the Ashes (Sons of Templar MC #3)(30)

His head lifted. “So this is all I can do. When we’re together, we f*ck. That’s it. All we can be. If you want it,” he added. The way he said it, the way he was looking at me, it made me think he wanted me to say no. Tell him to shove it. I wished I could. Not for me but for womankind everywhere. But I think womankind might forgive me once they got a look at his body. And his dick.

“Okay,” I whispered back to him, meeting his eyes.

If I was honest with myself, I didn’t know if I could handle anything more than this. If I could give anything more. I feared I was broken. Pieces of me smashed when I was young and hopeful, wide open to the prospect of love. And I thought those pieces may always lie broken within me, beneath sarcasm and inappropriate humor. I thought the only person I was truly capable of opening my heart to was my daughter. No man could ever get in there. Not again.

So maybe I could get down with this arrangement.

Zane had been watching me during this moment, his eyes glued to my face. His thumb, feather light, traced down from my temple to my jaw. It was as if in that moment he saw me, saw the broken pieces. And I think it was because he was broken too.

Then his hand circled at my neck, his eyes darkening. “Gonna f*ck you even harder this time, Wildcat,” he declared hoarsely, surging into me.

The moment was gone, replaced with our mutual passion, desperation to cling to whatever our broken souls let us have.





“Mom?” a sleepy voice asked in confusion.

I glanced over to see Lexie emerging from the hallway, still half grasped by sleep. She always yanked herself out of bed before she was properly awake, and she would spend the first part of her morning as an adorable sleep-rumpled zombie. When she was younger, I would love it. She would come and cuddle close to me until the last of her dreams left her. She’d also say weird things like “There’s peanuts in the toaster,” which gave me endless hours of amusement. Then she started to grow up and I introduced her to the magical powers of caffeine. So I no longer got my Lexie cuddles. Right now she was looking at me like I was insane.

“Morning, sweetie,” I greeted cheerfully, passing her a cup of coffee.

She sipped it then eyed me cautiously. “Has there been some horrific national disaster?” she asked.

I glanced up from the griddle where I was scrambling eggs, frowning at the strange morning greeting. “Not that I know of,” I answered.

She shuffled to the breakfast bar. “Have any of our friends or family died?”

I gaped at her. “Of course not!” Maybe her weird half sleep phrases were making another appearance.

She sipped her coffee, looking slightly more alert. “Has Hell frozen over?” she continued.

I put my hand on my hip. “I sure hope not. If Little Nicky has anything right that would not be a good situation,” I replied. “Now what’s with the twenty, Sherlock?”

“You’re cooking,” she observed.

“I can cook,” I defended myself.

“If held at gunpoint, yes,” Lexie conceded. She paused, looking me up and down. “You’re dressed,” she also pointed out.

I looked down at my pencil skirt and heels. “People look at me weird if I go out in only my underwear,” I answered, sliding eggs onto a plate with toast.

“It’s 7 a.m.,” she said.

“I own a watch,” I told her, passing her the plate.

“Is this—”

“Gluten free? Yes, weirdo, it is. I wouldn’t dare poison my favorite daughter with wheat,” I interrupted her, topping up my own coffee.

“Only daughter,” she countered, taking a bite of her toast.

“That you know of,” I shot back.

“Anyway, as I was saying—” She glared at me accusingly. “It’s 7a.m. Never in my life, apart from that one time you decided we had to get up and watch the Olympics, have you been up dressed and coffee’d before this time,” she said in between bites. “And I can count on one hand the times you’ve cooked me breakfast.”

“Hey! Don’t make me sound like a terrible mother. I’ve cooked you breakfast since you were born,” I said defensively. “Starting with these puppies.” I pointed at my breasts, which she put in danger of ruining for good until I changed to formula.

She gave me a disapproving look before ignoring the breast milk reference. “Toasting Pop Tarts and putting milk in cereal doesn’t count,” she offered.

I leaned against the counter. “I respectfully disagree.”

“I’m not discussing the semantics over our differing definitions of cooking with you,” Lexie said exasperatedly. “I’m asking why, at 7 a.m., are you up, dressed and cooking?”

I stiffened slightly. “I woke up. Was feeling energetic,” I lied.

I had never lied to my daughter, save the one I had told her about her father. Though that one was for her own safety, and I still felt sick over it. I felt no better about this one. I could hardly say I was across the road at Zane’s having crazy animal sex all night, had only got home a couple of hours ago, and decided I couldn’t sleep so had consumed copious amounts of coffee and decided to cook breakfast.

“You were feeling energetic?” she repeated suspiciously.

“Mmhmm,” I said into my coffee mug.