Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(71)

“Sore?”

Startled, I drop my washcloth and spin around, panic seizing my chest. Jonas stands on the other side of the glass door, his body distorted because of the frosted pane, arms crossed over his chest.

Releasing a breath, I nod. “A little, but nothing I can’t handle.”

Humming, he pulls open the door and steps inside. “Resilience is an attribute you seem to possess in spades.”

My face flushes at his words, and I turn toward the tile so he can’t see.

His palms skim over my hips, and I reach out, bracing my hands on the wall as he nestles his erection against me.

“Hiding already?” he murmurs, taking my earlobe between his teeth. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, love. I’ve seen everything. Quite enjoyed it, actually.”

I don’t respond for a moment, unsure of what to say. It’s not my body I’m trying to shield, but the organ inside my chest that’s been battered beyond repair.

A heart can only take so many fractures before it shatters, and Jonas Wolfe could break mine without even trying.

“I’m not embarrassed,” I say finally, and only when his fingers drift to my pussy, dragging the words out of me.

“Then turn around and let me see you.”

Swallowing, I nudge his hand away and face him, pressing my back into the wall. The tile is icy on my skin, a stark contrast to the heat otherwise crawling through me.

His violet eyes sweep over me, leaving sparks of electricity in their wake.

“It’s different in the daylight.”

Pinching my chin, he forces me to look up. “Better,” he says, pinning me against the tile.

Grabbing my hips again, he hoists me up, and I lock my legs around his waist as he notches his hard cock against me. Slick with arousal and aided by the shower spray, he slips in easily, and though there’s a twinge of discomfort as he stretches and stretches, it ebbs off into a heady pleasure when he’s fully seated.

He fucks me slow this time, but no less rough, each flex of his hips punctuated by the guttural sounds of our collective moaning.

“So.” Thrust. “Much.” Retreat, and thrust. “Better.”





Mama’s eyes narrow at me from across the table as she cuts into her baked potato. I watch her knife glide back and forth, separating skin and the mush inside, trying to understand the reasoning behind it.

It’s a baked fucking potato. The pieces are already manageable, and yet I’ve witnessed this process countless times over the years.

Bringing the fork to her mouth, she takes a tiny bite. Chews far longer than necessary.

Palmer sits beside her, sipping a beer, eyes volleying between us. Guilt lines his facial expression, and I resist the urge to reassure him that everything’s fine, because it’s not. When he invited me to supper, I was under the impression that it would be just the two of us, and yet my arrival at the little fine-dining eatery near the north marina proved otherwise.

I groan, slumping in my chair. “What are we doing, Mama?”

Her blonde brows hike. “Eating, dear. Or, I am, anyway.” She looks down at my plate of untouched salmon and asparagus. “Are you avoiding your entrée because it’s not junk food?”

“No.” Indignation puffs in my chest. “And I don’t only eat junk food.”

“Well, I should certainly hope not.” She takes one more bite and puts her plate down, dabbing at her pink lips. “Your metabolism may be high now because you’re young, but eventually all that salt and processed sugar will catch up with you. Then what will Jonas think?”

“Mama,” Palmer scolds softly, setting his glass on the table.

“Excuse me for trying to be proactive.” She shrugs, taking a sip of sangria. “You’d better find a way to lock him in, is all I’m saying. Men tire very easily, especially those who run in your father’s circles.”

Stomach full, I push my plate away and clasp my hands in my lap. “Jonas isn’t a part of Daddy’s circles.”

She scoffs behind her glass. “That’s news to me.”

“Are you drunk?” Palmer asks.

Sighing, she adjusts the collar of her kelly-green blouse, straightening her shoulders. “No, but I am beginning to wonder if Helene knows what she’s marrying into.” Glancing at me, she cocks an eyebrow. “You must understand the danger that comes written in that man’s DNA?”

“And yet, I feel safer with him since moving in than I ever did at home.”

Not entirely true, but she doesn’t need to know the details. Every day that passes, it feels more and more like I’m being watched—to the point where I’ve stopped venturing outside past dusk, just in case some wild beast is hiding in the ocean, waiting to attack.

Or worse.

I spend more of my time actively not thinking about it, though, because if I did, my entire life would be reduced to sheer panic.

And when anxiety wins out, you don’t get anything else done.

I didn’t spend weeks in Vermont reading books about affirmations and hanging out with my cow-obsessed aunt to backpedal like that.

“Preston is the better choice,” she says, reaching across the table for my hands. Cradling them in her cold fingers, her tired eyes grow pleading. “You two were good together, and he loves you so much.”