: Chapter 1

Don’t walk alone at night.

I grip the hem of my plaid skirt and glance behind me. The dark empty road disappears into the black void, like a tunnel under the canopy of trees. The midnight moon reflects only enough light to make the leaves look blue, while the mid-October breeze blows my hair across my cheek.

I face forward, continuing to walk. My heart pumps hard in my chest.

Don’t walk alone at night.

I don’t think my parents ever told me that, but I learned it well enough. The world is full of things that want to hurt us because they can. Because we make it easy.

Women shouldn’t have too much muscle on our bodies. We shouldn’t be too smart or learn how to manage money. We don’t need to know how to navigate a crowd, lead the way through a city or an airport, or choose the car we want to buy. Let the man drive if there’s one in the vehicle with you, and the dinner reservation should always be in his name.

Those are things my parents did tell me.

Everything in life is about power, and it wasn’t that I was taught that I didn’t have any. I learned that men would like me better if I didn’t show it.

The forest closes in on both sides of the road, and I feel figures that aren’t there. Hidden in the trees. Watching me. As if danger can tell when we’re unprotected and show up at that exact time and place. Summer camp serial killers always know when a girl has traipsed off away from her group, don’t they? No matter where the summer camp is. Even if he’s in a different one.

But instead of being afraid, I look up, the semi-clear night offering a spray of stars so bright that I’m glad I’m out alone, after all. Deep on this dark road, away from the lights of town.

I clench my school skirt in my fists as the soft fabric of my shirt sticks to my damp skin. My breasts chafe against the cloth.

Jupiter will be visible in a few months. I forget what’s visible this time of year, but it’s nice to see anything. Coastal Florida towns in hurricane season aren’t a joke. The clouds always roll in.

I don’t hear the engine behind me.

“Need a ride?” someone calls out.

I jerk my head, my heart skipping a beat. I look over, meeting green eyes that peer at me from the driver’s side of his truck. I move off the road, to the gravel, as his vehicle crawls up next to me.

His arm drapes over the door, and he’s not wearing a shirt, every inch of skin that’s bared on his chest, neck, and muscles tan.

He works outside. And often shirtless from the looks of it, because there are no lines.

A boy from across the tracks.

His black hair is pushed back under a backward baseball cap, and his eyes gleam in that way that I know by now. Men have been looking at me like that since long before they should have.

I swallow. “No, thank you.”

I continue walking, waiting for him to press the gas and keep going, but he doesn’t. The muscles in my thighs tense, ready to run. I move farther and farther away, feeling his eyes on my back.

“You know what you need?” he says, and I see his truck come up again out of the corner of my eye. “A girl like you should have a boyfriend.”

A lock of my chestnut hair floats on the wind and then falls back against my face. I squeeze my skirt again, the tails of my white shirt hanging almost as low as my hem.

“Someone to take care of you and drive you,” he says. “Would you like a man?”

His words climb my skin. I look ahead of me, down the road. More dark. More empty. No one knows I’m out here.

“Come here,” he says, almost a whisper.

My mouth goes dry.

He’s not asking.

I hear his door creak open, and I stop, slowly turning and watching him jump out of the cab.

Run.

Leaving his door open, he drops his chin, slowly approaching me as if I were a dog he needs to leash before I get away.

Run, I tell myself.

I take a step back, but he reaches out and catches the lock of hair hanging down my cheek.

He doesn’t look at it, though. He looks in my eyes.

He’s young. Not much older than me, but definitely taller. Broader.

Too close.

I spin around, but before I can take the first step away, he’s grabbing me and hauling me back against his chest. I gasp, feeling one of his hands cover my breast and the other one slide down between my legs.

He exhales in my ear, stroking the slit beneath my underwear. “Oh God, you got something good, don’t you?”

He moans.

I squirm, whimpering, “No …”

He reaches inside my panties, stroking me as he sucks in air between his teeth. “Get in the truck.” He spins me around and releases me, but he pushes me toward his car before I can run. “I’m your man now, honey,” he growls.

I look side to side as he shoves me, his open door blocking my escape to my left and him blocking me on my right. I scramble into the truck, flipping over and crawling backward as far as possible to the other side until my back hits the door.

I grab the handle behind me, but the locks click just before I yank. I pull up and down, trying to get out, but his eyes are on me as he climbs in and slams the door. I can’t move. I clench my thighs.

His gaze travels down my body to my legs and everything he can see with my skirt hiked up. I pull it down.

“Goddamn,” he murmurs, his tongue moving inside his mouth.

He kicks the truck into Drive and hits the gas.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere I can pay my new girlfriend a little attention,” he replies.

His eyes dance as he watches the road, a trickle of sweat streaming down his chest. I watch it glide over every ripple in his abs.

His dark hair is blacker near his ear where the sweat has matted it, and I watch him bite his bottom lip as he stares ahead. Smooth, young neck. Every muscle flexed as he holds his arm out straight and fists the steering wheel. No tattoos. Just a scar on his eyebrow—a small slit where the hair no longer grows.

I dig my nails into the seat behind me.

I should try harder to get away. Hit him. Kick him.

He pulls off the road, down a gravel path, and then takes a sharp left into a small lot surrounded by woods. It’s where people come to play with their ATVs. The woods are filled with trails.

But the lot is abandoned at night.

It’s just us.

He parks and shuts off the engine, the cab turning nearly pitch black.

I feel hands grip my ankles, and I’m yanked down the seat as he kneels between my legs and hovers over me.

“I want to go home,” I say.

He doesn’t reply.

Reaching under my skirt, he peels my panties down my legs and over my shoes, staring at my naked skin. “Oh God, you are a pretty little bitch.”

Pushing up my shirt, he comes down, sucking one of my nipples into his mouth as he strokes me between the legs with one of his hands.

“Mmm,” he groans.

I grip his wrist under my skirt with both hands, trying to take his hand out from between my legs, but his muscles flex underneath my fingers, holding tight. Flicking my nipple with his tongue, he moves to the other breast, and I shove at his chest, whimpering, but he pays me no mind as he takes his pleasure.

Like he doesn’t see me.

Like I’m just here for fun.

He pinches my nipple between his teeth, and a shock shoots through my stomach to down between my thighs. I release him and drag my fingers up my stomach to the waist of my skirt.

“Yeah, your wet little cunt is ready for me, isn’t it?” he coos.

Yeah, baby.

I clutch the hilt of the knife hidden in my skirt and raise my arm, pressing the blade to his neck.

He stops.

I feel my smile in my fucking throat.

His hot breath hits faster against my skin as he hovers over my breast, and I lift my head, feeling like I’m floating as I get into his face.

“Get off me.”

God, how he just stopped. That was awesome.

I could do whatever I wanted to him right now.

Slowly, he sits back in his seat, and I follow, keeping the blade at his neck as I slide my leg over his thighs.

Straddling him, I settle in his lap. “Put your hands on the roof,” I order.

He raises his arms, still barely breathing as he places his palms above his head.

The steering wheel presses into my back, and I lean into him, the hard flesh of my nipples pressing through my shirt, against his warm chest.

He holds his breath as I slip my free hand down, digging in his pocket. I pull out a few folded bills and hold them up, smiling a little before dropping them inside my shirt pocket.

I press the blade harder. “Hands behind your head.”

He pierces me with his stare but does what he’s told.

I could probably escape right now. He might not grab for me. Or try to take away my weapon. A guy like him—good-looking and used to having whoever he wants—probably thinks I’m not worth any more trouble.

I could leave.

But I don’t.

I shift, rolling so slowly over the bulge in his jeans and sliding my hand up his chest.

“On second thought,” I taunt, rising to my knees so the breast poking through my shirt is level with his mouth. “You are built for fun, aren’t you?”

I press myself into his mouth, and he seizes the invitation, nuzzling my collared shirt off my shoulder, baring a breast. He sucks it into his mouth. His hot tongue nibbles and teases so soft, and I grip the back of his neck, holding him to me to make sure he doesn’t stop.

I come down, kissing his mouth and whispering against his lips, “Open your jeans and take it out.”

I roll my hips into him, panting and groaning as he rips at his belt and unfastens his fly.

He tries to take my hips, but I dig the blade into his neck. “Don’t touch me.”

He pulls away, and I attack his mouth, feeling the hard, hot flesh of his cock brush against my clit.

I stare down into his eyes. “You still want me?” I whisper.

He nods, his mouth hanging open as he breathes hard. “God, yes.”

I linger, rolling my hips and taunting him, but he’s ready to go. He dives behind me, reaching for the glove box, and I kiss his neck and trail up his jaw and to his temple.

But then he goes still, and eventually, I stop kissing.

Looking behind me, I see his hand clutching a condom box upside down. As if it’s empty.

He throws it down onto the floor and shuffles through the contents of the glove box, looking for a condom that must’ve spilled out. Papers and napkins and tools I don’t recognize slide onto the floor, but when he stops, he’s still empty-handed. Nothing.

He has nothing. No protection.

I tense. “There were two left,” I tell him.

He glances up at me, a pained look in his eyes. He swipes his hand through the compartment again in vain.

I drop my arms from his body. “Trace …”

He shoots up, letting his head fall back and locking his hands on top. “Shit,” he murmurs to the roof.

My stomach drops a little. We were together three days ago. He had two condoms left in that box. His brothers don’t use this truck.

I try to catch his eyes, but he won’t look at me. “Are you serious?”

Without waiting for him to answer, I climb off, plopping back into my seat and setting the knife down.

“Come on,” Trace says in a gentle voice. “Please don’t be mad, Krisjen.”

He reaches for my hand, but I take it away, buttoning my shirt the couple of notches I undid earlier to look like sexy serial killer bait on the dark road in the middle of nowhere.

He hesitates, but the mood is gone. He zips up his fly and fastens his belt, our little role-play switching back to reality. I’m eighteen again, graduated and no longer in Catholic school, and he’s twenty, trying not to make an enemy out of one of his sister’s best friends, because he knows he’ll be running into me a lot in life.

“Please don’t make me feel bad,” he says softly. “I didn’t think you were exclusive to me, either. You’re not in love with me, are you? I’m an idiot.”

I close my eyes but almost laugh, because he is an idiot.

And I’m not in love with him.

But now I can’t lie to myself anymore. I am absolutely not special to him. I’m probably just the only one who texted back tonight.

I did like him, though. He goes along with my role-playing fantasies where I overpower someone trying to overpower me.

I bow my head, rubbing my tired eyes.

“Krisjen, seriously.” He takes my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think we were like that.”

“Don’t apologize,” I tell him, pulling my hand back. It just makes me feel more pathetic. “You’re right. We’re not getting married.”

I meet his eyes, saying his name in my head. Trace Jaeger.

And Milo Price. My ex-boyfriend. The two men I’ve slept with.

I always thought it would be only one. When I was twelve, I imagined my true-love experience would be passionate kisses on seaside cliffs as my dress blew in the wind. He would be a poet. And secretly a duke. With a castle. Like, I literally thought that’s what would happen, because I had lofty ideas and never figured in my desperation for attention.

But that’s not what happened. I was a sophomore, invited with some friends to junior prom, which ended at a party where I gave it up to my boyfriend on a stranger’s bed, and it was all over in eleven minutes.

I’ve slept with two men.

And counting.

Trace won’t be the last.

“Other guys will do what you do to me,” I murmur.

“Exactly like me?”

“Probably harder.”

He snorts, sitting back in his seat. “Well, you know you can still come over when you need a break from your future husband five or ten years from now. When you need it good and dirty.”

He’s trying to make me smile, but I don’t. I look out the window instead. Ten years from now … God, will I still need him in order to feel alive?

An image flashes in my head, but almost immediately I realize it’s not my mother. It’s me. With her hair. In her clothes. In her life.

He tries to take my hand. “Come here.”

I resist.

“Come here,” he whispers.

But gently, I pull my hand away before he can take it.

Trace is a people pleaser. He hates anyone being mad at him. Comes from years of dodging four older brothers who are all tornadoes.

Macon, Army, Iron, and Dallas.

His sister, Liv, dates my best friend, Clay, but Liv is pretty calm compared to the rest of the Jaegers. Which I’m sure also comes from years of dodging five older brothers who are all tornadoes. She loves them all, though.

Their parents died within two months of each other more than eight years ago. The oldest, Macon, was forced to leave the military to come home and raise his siblings. Trace’s older brothers are pretty much his only memories.

“We could go on a date,” he says. “You have my money.”

“You mean your allowance?” I pluck the folded bills out of my breast pocket—a twenty on the outside and, knowing him, it’s probably a one on the inside. I hand it back before pulling my underwear on.

He returns the bills to his pocket. “I’m a man who makes his own living, thank you.”

Mm-hm. “I’m not letting you take me on a date out of guilt.”

“Well, I’m still up for sex, too,” he adds, flashing his adorable smile. “I mean, this was all your idea, and you got me pretty worked up.” He gestures to the hard-on in his jeans. “The part where you robbed me was pretty hot.”

I force a frown, but only because I’m mad that I want to smile. He’s trying hard to make me feel better, and for some reason, I feel an urge to let him know his effort is appreciated.

Turns out, I’m a people pleaser, too.

“I was trying to be tough like your sister and Clay,” I mumble, teasing.

I thought I was doing well, but now, I don’t know.

He touches my face. “I’m glad you’re not violent,” he says quietly. “I like that you’re soft with people. Don’t change that.”

It’s nice of him to say, but being that way doesn’t seem to work out for me. Being gentle just makes me an easy target.

“Don’t change, okay?”

Yeah, okay. Whatever.

“Just take me to your house.” I push up my sleeves and fasten my seat belt. “I need to pick up my car.”

“Krisjen …”

“It’s fine, Trace.” I don’t look at him. “We’re not a couple. We never were.”

I lied to myself. I did it to myself.

I’m pretty sure I was officially a booty call from the start. One night last spring I followed Clay across the tracks into Sanoa Bay, the original settlement of St. Carmen.

Officially, we’re all St. Carmen now, but the Bay—where Trace and his family live—doesn’t like to hear that. They’re possessive of their land, and they want to rule separately.

They’re wild.

We hide everything.

They’re poor.

We’re not.

They’re Swamp.

We’re Saints.

Clay fell in love with Liv, the bad girl from the wrong side of town, and I fell into insanity with one of that bad girl’s brothers.

But it was never love like it was for Liv and Clay. Trace doesn’t think of me after I leave his bed, and if I’m being fair, I don’t think much of myself, either.

He turns the key, starting the engine, and in a moment, he’s pulling onto the road and heading left, toward the swamps.

We cruise past the gates of my house, and I glance to see the upstairs lights still off before Trace turns right onto the dark lane and then takes a another left, across the bridge and over the wetlands.

I take out my phone and DM my brother.

Marshall is almost thirteen. He usually has his headphones on so he won’t hear Paisleigh if she wakes up.

A text rolls in. How did you know I had the old iPad?

I laugh to myself. Because you’re smart, like me.

I took all of his tech when I put them both to bed two hours ago, but I didn’t ask for the one device he thought was still a secret. Maybe I should have. If my parents had been stricter with my bedtimes, maybe I’d be in college right now like all my friends.

But I also know Mars is going to do what he wants to do. I’m strict enough that he knows I care about him getting a good night’s sleep, but not so strict that all he learns is how to hide from me. There will be bigger battles than iPads and cell phones.

If he’s anything like me.

Leave my pillow alone, he fires back.

I laugh out loud, and I see Trace look at me out of the corner of my eye. My brother has a pillow with Jason Momoa’s face on it. It’s a good-looking pillow.

My phone vibrates with a text. And nice flowers, Mars taunts. Mom dug them out of the trash.

And I promptly threw them back in, I tap out my reply. Good night. Sleep tight. I love you.

I tuck my phone back in my pocket, turning the volume up on Trace’s radio as he speeds me away from those white roses in the garbage at my house.

I love getting flowers, but not from strange men.

I’m tempted to reach out to my father and grandparents to let them know that my mother is trying to marry me off, but I’m not sure they’d care.

And I’m not asking my father for anything. He doesn’t want to support his family, so I don’t think he’ll care that my mom is trying to find a way to do it instead by making me marry someone rich.

Droplets of rain spatter the windshield, but I crack my window, inhaling the scent of the wind. The gentle lights of St. Carmen and the soft glow of the gas lamps on Main Street disappear in my sideview mirror as Trace exits the overpass. We bounce over the tracks, the road turning pebbly and loud under the tires as he coasts into the wild landscape of the Bay.

Old shacks that have been here for a hundred years serve the area’s best gumbo and fresh seafood, and we pass unkept land, the dark porches of hidden houses just peeking through the brush.

I rub my hands together in my lap.

There’s a part of me that’s asleep until I come here. Maybe it’s the heat, which I feel just a little bit more, or maybe it’s the land, chaotic and overridden as if the trees are trying to take it back.

Over hundreds of years, Seminoles and Spaniards claimed, fought, lived, warred, and then eventually built together.

And when more Europeans came and wanted the swamp and the beautiful views of the sea, the Bay became one nation unto themselves—one wall against the world.

Communities stop working together over time once they no longer have to, but the Bay is unique. After five hundred years, they’re still fighting to survive. That one common goal has kept them together.

St. Carmen has passion, too, but it’s not nearly as fun.

Trace speeds down the dirt road, passing a few homes and businesses along the main street, and then swings the car around in a U-turn, pulling up in front of his house. Half a dozen trucks and other vehicles are parked outside, the downstairs lights illuminating the windows.

We hop out, and I look next to the fence, seeing my Rover still parked where I left it.

“Son of a bitch!” someone bellows from inside the house. “I could’ve been killed!”

I inhale a deep breath. Iron Jaeger. One of Trace’s older brothers. I know his voice by process of elimination. He’s the only one I rarely hear yell, and I know all the others’ voices. If it were Macon, the oldest, I’d probably just turn around and leave.

Guys come barreling out the front door, running down the walk and out into the rainy dirt road. Their girlfriends wait by the cars, laughing and shielding themselves from the weather.

Music inside makes the house vibrate as the Seminole flag blows over the garage door. Ivy and moss climb the exterior of the ancient pink stucco of the dilapidated Spanish mission-style mansion, and I inhale like I always do, because you can eat the air here.

Stepping through the arch of the heavy wooden front door, I hear one of the shutters on the second or third floor flapping against the house. Screams pierce the air, and I wince as more people rush toward me.

I leap, Trace pulling me into his arms and out of the way. The music cuts off as they squeeze past me, out the door.

“What the hell is going on?” I mumble.

But Army Jaeger, the second-oldest, answers instead. “An alligator slithered into the pool.”

He pulls on a T-shirt. His black hair is soaked, drops of water sliding over the giant octopus tattoo that spills over his shoulder and onto the left side of his chest. I used to think he rarely wore a shirt because he knew how good he looked without one, but I eventually figured out that he simply liked to save time. When his brothers aren’t causing him enough trouble, he’s taking care of his infant son. At twenty-eight, he’s the only one with a kid.

“Iron fell in when we tried to haul it out,” he adds.

Of course he did. One of the Jaegers is always on the verge of getting killed.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask.

But he just waves me off, grabbing a baseball bat from behind the coatrack. His short dark hair gleams with water. “Yeah, just keep your eyes peeled. We lost it, but it could be hanging around. We’re going to search for it.”

Awesome. I look over, seeing Iron throw back his beer, muscles tense and his clothes soaking wet. His black hair is slicked back. He started growing it out this summer, and his tan is still deep everywhere I can see. The vein in the side of his neck bulges underneath a tattoo.

But then another Jaeger steps up. “Great,” Dallas says in a snide tone. “Trace calls, you come running.”

Dallas’s green eyes are always looking at me like he’s imagining me on fire.

I turn my attention back to the remnants of the party and the damage in the living room. “We drove, actually.”

Trace lets out a chuckle and tosses a flashlight to his brother. “Be careful.”

Dallas takes it, pushing his hair back over the top of his head and slipping on a ball cap. He’s a year older than Trace. Twenty-one. And he doesn’t like me.

He doesn’t like me a lot.

Army, Iron, Dallas, and Trace. That’s four.

Army’s infant son, Dex, bawls upstairs.

“Why’s that kid still up?” Dallas barks.

“Because y’all are too fucking loud,” his father growls, heading out the door.

A girl calls after him. “Army, seriously. Should I wait in Liv’s old room or what?”

I look over at the half ponytail on top of her head and the bright red lipstick that matches her tight skirt and shirt. I cross my arms over my chest, covering the paint stain from helping Paisleigh with her art earlier tonight.

But Army just tells her, “Stay out of my sister’s room.”

He bolts through the door with Dallas as Iron starts to follow, swallowing down the rest of his bottle.

“How are you?” I ask him.

He doesn’t look at me, just shakes his head and sighs as he sets the beer down.

My grandfather is the district judge who always seems to have Iron in his courtroom for one arrest or another. Breaking and entering, theft, and, most recently … assault. Iron loves to get into fistfights. Something he still hasn’t grown out of at twenty-four years old.

Unfortunately, his luck ran out this summer. His last arrest resulted in bail, a court date, and finally a plea bargain. He’ll serve time. He has to surrender in a week.

I’m not responsible, but I also feel like I shouldn’t be in his house.

“Iron, you coming?” Dallas calls out.

Iron casts me a look, his eyes softening with the hint of a smile. An hourglass with a snake wrapped around it is inked on the side of his neck, and several more tattoos cover his body. I’ve never looked at length, but I know he has a palm tree with Sanoa Bay’s latitude and longitude on his forearm, and a huge alligator on the bottom left of his back.

He shrugs. “Nothing better to do, I guess, right?”

I half smile back, always liking him. Maybe even more than Trace. Iron is completely different around women and children. I once saw him stop and park his motorcycle, take an old lady’s groceries, put them in his saddlebags, and drop them at her house so she wouldn’t have to carry them. It was kind of funny, because she thought he was stealing them at first and tried to hit him. Now, they’re on a first-name basis, and she has him run her husband and his wheelchair to physical therapy for her once in a while. Not on the motorcycle, of course.

Engines start up outside as Iron, Dallas, and Army leave. Trace stays behind, and I have no idea where Macon is, but the garage was closed when I got here. If he’s home, that’s where he is.

No parents.

Just five brothers.

All in the same house.

I think some of them want to move out, but they wouldn’t know what to do without each other on a daily basis.

“Drink?”

I glance at Trace as he twists off the tops of a couple of beers. The same hourglass with a snake wrapped around it rests against his skin, forged in iron, and secured with three thin leather bands around his right wrist. All of his brothers wear the same bracelet. It’s the Tryst Six family crest. Tryst after their mother, Trysta, and Six because there are six children. Not sure who came up with the name. I’m pretty sure they didn’t give it to themselves.

Trace holds a bottle out to me. I hate beer. I’m sure I told him at some point.

“Where are my keys?” I ask.

“You know where they are.”

He holds a bottle in each hand, taking a long swig out of one.

I blink at him. “Would you go get them, please? Like a gentleman?”

We went out on their boat last time I was here, and he drove me home from there. I need my car back now.

But he just teases, “You may have left other things. May as well go look.”

I arch a brow, reading into his ploy to get me into his room. I start up the stairs. “Like my vibrator?” I grumble. “I used it here more than at my house.”

“So rude.”

He starts up the stairs after me, and I keep my laugh to myself. I didn’t come a lot with Trace, but to be fair, I didn’t expect to.

Nor do I think he was trying that hard.

I’d read somewhere that the majority of women can’t orgasm through penetration, so I gathered I was part of that majority.

Sometimes I made him slow down so I could help myself get there. I used my vibrator a lot here, as it turns out.

He’s a good kisser, though. Touching him and being close to him felt good, and for a while, feeling him helped me forget about my troubles.

For a while anyway.

At the top of the stairs, I pass his sister’s closed door and smile a little, because I know I’ll see her in a few weeks when she’s home for Thanksgiving. The bathroom and Macon’s room are on the right, his door closed as well, and I spot Iron and Dallas’s room ahead, to the left of Trace’s.

Army’s is closed, his son’s cries now quiet, and there’s a door in the far corner, always shut. I’ve never seen anyone go in or out of there.

“Why didn’t you want to come to the party?” Trace asks, following me into his room as I go to his desk that’s simply a dumping ground for discarded junk.

I start moving things, looking for my keys. “You mean the one today as opposed to the one yesterday?”

I meet his green eyes for a quick glance, seeing him smile. I look away, feeling that familiar flutter in my tummy. That easy smile was all it took when this one-night stand started six months ago.

“You’re not the only thing I have to do in life, Trace.”

Doors slam downstairs, the house growing quieter as engines fade away down the street.

“Oh, come on, Ms. Conroy.” He sets one of the beers down, coming up behind me and taking my waist in one hand. “You love coming down here to the servants’ quarters to get serviced.”

I shake my head, lifting a tackle box and prying up a greasy car part. “You don’t need me,” I tell him. “There are plenty of girls hanging around your house.”

I glance at the mussed bed.

He nuzzles into my ear. “I like to think about seeing you around town for the next fifty years,” he tells me, “pretending to be a sweet, southern wife when I know what you look like underneath me. I’ll see you. You’ll see me. We’ll smile as we pass on the sidewalk, remembering. Clock’s ticking, Conroy. May as well have some fun while you can.”

There’s a lightheartedness in his twenty-year-old voice that I love, but it always gives me pause, too. He’s never serious, and after six months of playing around together, I’m starting to suspect it’s on purpose.

I stop looking for my keys. “You know I don’t think of you like that, right? As a servant, I mean?”

His family has more money than mine at this point. My parents are locked in a divorce battle, and my father left us nothing while they duke it out. The Jaegers, on the contrary, probably aren’t as poor as they like to seem.

But Trace just teases, “Shh, don’t break the fantasy.”

I spot my keys on his bedside table and grab them, turning around to face him. “I’m going home.”

“Will you come back sometime?”

I’m taken off guard by the question.

No.

I won’t be back.

There’s nothing here that’s good for me, and it’s time I got my ass in gear. I need plans. Some direction. College, maybe?

But I still have no idea what I want to do with my life.

I never wanted to be a lawyer, a stockbroker, or a CEO.

All I ever wanted was to love waking up. To be counted on to make someone’s life better.

And I want a man who breathes me. Who craves me and needs me.

I’m not going to find any of that in Trace’s bedroom.

“Maybe I’ll see you around town.” I smile a little. “Over the next fifty years.”

He takes my face in his hand, his nose nearly brushing mine. “You need one more good memory to take with you.”

I shift my mouth away, about to push his hand off, but someone knocks on the door.

“Trace?” It’s a woman’s voice.

The door opens, and I peer around him as he releases me. A brunette peeks her head inside his room, and I think she was downstairs with Army’s date. I think her name is Carissa.

She sees me, smiles, and bites her bottom lip. “Need anything?” she asks us.

I stare at her. Do we need anything?

Why would …

I turn to him, but he’s just watching me.

He leans down, planting his hands on the desk at my sides and gets in my face. “Tell her I’m yours tonight,” he says.

What?

It takes about a second and a half for me to realize she’s his backup plan. I shove him away and start for the door.

Jesus. So either I claim him or she will?

When I whip open the door, the girl slides out of my way. “You can stay,” she tells me. “We can both play.”

“Krisjen’s not brave,” Trace says like I’m not here. “Or is she?”

I’m not letting him bait me. “No, I am.” I toss him a glance. “Maybe I’ll do that someday. I’m just not going to do it with you.”

And I walk out, slamming the door behind me.

Motherfucker. I’m half-tempted to call his sister and rat him out, but she wouldn’t be surprised, and I have some pride left.

Plus, she loves the hell out of him.

Trace has always been deliberately irresponsible, but unlike Milo, he’s nice. Not very considerate, but not once did I ever get the impression it was personal. I didn’t love him, so I didn’t worry about it.

But that was personal. I was well aware he wasn’t going to miss me when this was over, but it’s not like him to rub things like that in.

Rain hits the windows, and I head down the stairs, barely noticing the house is now quiet and dark. Lightning flashes outside, and I fist the keys, opening the front door. I take a step but stop, remembering the gator.

Looking around, I scan the yard and the dirt road beyond the fence, spotting lights from the fire station next door and the repair shop across the street. Music beats against the walls of the bar far off to my left, but most of the cars have cleared out of the Jaegers’ place, and I don’t see anyone—or anything—outside.

I would love an escort to my car, but I’m not about to ask Trace for help. I leap out into the yard, pulling the door closed behind me, and run to my car. Drops hit my head as I round the front of the vehicle, but before I can hit the button to unlock it, I know something is off. The car isn’t level. I drop my eyes to the front tire on the driver’s side, seeing it’s flat at the same time I notice a gash in the rubber. Right there. Plain as day.

I drop my head back, growling. “Ugh!”

Goddammit, Aracely. Seriously. She’s not even interested in Trace. What did I ever do to her?

And I know it’s her. She pulled the same shit with my friend Amy this summer, which I sympathized with, because Amy hooked up with Dallas and Iron. Both Aracely’s exes.

I can see her being aggravated that a Saint is sleeping over here. Having fun with their men (as she would see it). But Trace was never hers. And I thought she liked me.

I guess she thought she’d put up with me until I left for college, and since I didn’t, she’s now letting me know that my time is up.

The wind stirs, rain blowing sideways, and I climb into my car and pull out my phone.

I dial Maker Street Tow Service, but the line just rings. I hang up and try again, but it goes to voicemail.

I start to dial Clay but stop. She worked tonight. And she has classes.

I hover my thumb over my phone. Mom, Dad …

Milo would come and get me. For sure. They’d all come and get me, but they can all fuck off. Can I drive on a flat tire?

I think that hurts the rims or something, but I push the button, turning over the engine anyway. Shifting into Drive, I press the gas and nearly topple over, grabbing the steering wheel in both hands for support. “Damn,” I blurt out.

Shutting off the engine, I dash back out into the rain and run around the car, seeing the rear passenger tire is flat, too.

I throw out my hands. “Jesus, Aracely. Do you want me to leave, or are you trying to keep me here?” I call out to the empty street, just picturing her watching all this from the woods.

Goddamn.

Locking my car, I run back into the house and up the stairs. Swinging open the door to Liv’s room, I spot someone asleep on the bed and stop.

Face down, no shirt … I have no idea who it is, but I can’t crash here.

“Come on,” I gripe under my breath.

Snatching the blanket off the bottom of the bed, I close the door and walk back downstairs. I can hear laughter followed by moaning somewhere behind me, and I kick the couch before I drop my keys to the coffee table, kick off my sneakers, and then plop down on my back, pulling the blanket over me.

I’ll look nice and pathetic still here in the morning. I can’t even change the tire once the rain stops, because I need two of them now. Hopefully, I can reach a tow service in the morning.

I tap out a text to my brother.

I reach behind me, finding one of the many chargers they keep around the house, and plug it in my phone.

Drops of rain catch the moonlight on the windows, lightning filling the room for a second. Small sounds drift downstairs—a laugh, a thud, a creak—and I can’t help but stare at the ceiling, listening. Anyone would think I might be upset that all those sounds are probably Trace, but all I’m wondering is if he was that loud with me so anyone downstairs would’ve heard.

I remember hearing Liv and Clay once. Last year, during an away game when we were on the lacrosse team. They were enemies—hated each other—but we were all on the same team, sharing a hotel room one night. I was in one bed with Amy, and they were in another bed together. And I woke up and finally knew my suspicions were correct. They didn’t hate each other at all. I swear I could hear the sweat under the sheets as they went at it.

When I felt Amy start to stir next to me, I triggered the alarm on my phone and pretended to wake up, because Amy seeing them wouldn’t be the way Clay would want everyone to find out she was into girls.

Or maybe just into Liv. Their need for each other is still so strong. I’ve never felt that with anyone.

I’ve never felt like someone wanted me more than anything.

“More?”

But it’s not Trace saying it.

It’s someone, though.

One of many silly fantasies.

I close my eyes, breathing hard and my stomach already swirling a little.

The pulse between my legs throbs, and I place my hand under the blanket, pressing my hand there.

And my heart races against my chest as I use my hand to do the same.

The cool air in the house hits my nipples, and I feel them rising straight up as I push down the blanket and rub myself harder and harder.

I widen them.

I squeeze one breast, my clit hammering as I roll my hips in and out against my hand and tip my head back.

I ride my hand like I ride him, feeling his eyes on my tits and his fist in my hair. I move faster, feeling my breasts sway back and forth, and I bite my bottom lip to keep quiet. But my breathing is getting too fast and shallow.

Oh God. I …

I …

I blink my eyes open, seeing a figure looming at the entryway between the stairs and the living room, and heat rushes under my skin.

Oh shit. I gasp, pulling my hands off my body, pulling my shirt back down, and opening my eyes wide until he comes in view.

What the fuck?

He lifts a beer bottle to his lips and tips it back, taking a drink.

Trace?

My heart pounds against my chest. “Oh my God,” I murmur.

I can’t swallow. My throat is so dry.

I peer through the darkness. It’s not Trace. This one’s taller, though I can’t tell who it is exactly. The rooms are almost pitch black with the cloud cover overtaking the moon outside.

But great. Fucking awesome.

It’s got to be one of the Jaegers. Jeans. No shirt. Just like my dream.

I pull the blanket up over my bottom half, my skirt still hiked up.

I try to calm my breathing, rubbing my eyes. “Aracely slashed my tires,” I say. “I’ll be out of here as soon as I can get ahold of a tow truck.”

Whoever it is doesn’t say anything, and after a moment, I risk another glance. He still stands there.

Watching me, I think.

I squint, trying to make him out.

“What?” I blurt out. “Why are you staring at me?”

I sit up, keeping the blanket over me, and swing my legs over the side of the couch. “You can brag about this,” I tell him, feeling around in the dark for my shoes. “Someday, when I look, act, and smell like a pristine pair of fifteen-hundred-dollar heels, and I’m married to a lawyer or a banker who tastes like glue and campaigns for family values at church every Sunday, you can say you once watched me fuck myself on your couch, right?”

It’s almost too funny, and I would totally understand if he laughed. Should I do it again, so he can video?

I look back up at him, waiting for some kind of response. “Who is that?” I ask.

I can’t see his face. How long was he watching?

“Should I leave?” I almost whisper. “Walk home?”

He doesn’t say anything. But his head tilts to the side a little.

“Would you like to give me a ride?” I press. “Get me off your couch?”

He stays frozen.

Jesus. What the hell is his problem?

As if tonight hasn’t been bad enough. I’m stuck in Trace’s house, where I’m perfectly welcome as long as I’m going in the morning. The trouble is, I don’t feel much more comfortable at home.

“Trace is upstairs screwing someone else,” I say in a soft voice, watching the bottle hang at his side. “And it’s weird, because I don’t care.”

I look at him, shaking my head as the tears well in my eyes. I have no idea why I told him that. Maybe it’ll make him leave.

“I kept coming here, because I really had nothing else to do.” I laugh under my breath, but only for a second.

Needles prick my throat, and I lower my gaze, remembering the laughs Trace and I had. How I actually thought that, even though I didn’t love him, he wasn’t laughing like that with anyone else, because I certainly wasn’t.

“I guess …” I fist the blanket. “I guess I didn’t want to think it was meaningless, either, though, you know? Because then it would mean I was just as shallow as …”

I don’t finish the sentence. Mommy issues are boring.

“Why do I do that?” I say more to myself but still feel him there, watching me. “Why do things have to mean anything? Why is it either all in or empty? If it’s not enough, then it’s nothing to me. Why?”

My chin trembles, and I must seem so ridiculous to him. What do I have to cry about? “Empty …”

The word comes out as a whisper, and I can’t even see him breathe as the bottle hangs from his fingers and rests against his leg. He doesn’t leave, though.

I stand up and fold the blanket. “I can’t afford to go to college,” I drone on, “because my dad took all the money, and even if he hadn’t, the kids …”

I stop, staring at the floor as the tears spill over.

I choke out the words. “I can’t leave them alone with her.”

After what she’s trying to do to me, there’s no way in hell I trust her. Or my father. I hide that he now lives on Barony Lane, just a mile away with his girlfriend, and not in Atlanta like my brother and sister think. How else was I supposed to explain to them why their father suddenly doesn’t see them?

“My mother wants me to marry Jerome Watson.” It hurts to talk, the tears lodged in my throat. “A thirty-two-year-old corporate tax lawyer, whom I’ve met once, who’s looking for a pretty wife so he’ll want to fuck her over and over again, a healthy one who can take care of his house and stay knocked up for years to come, and a young one who’s too ignorant and naïve to challenge him.”

The tears keep coming, but I don’t feel sad. “I’m scared,” I breathe out. “I didn’t think making life better for the people around me would involve spending my life with someone I don’t love.”

I blink long and hard.

“But what does it matter, right?” I force a laugh. “Nothing I do will make a difference. May as well help my family and numb myself with pretty shoes and handbags while I’m at it.”

As if that will distract me from knowing I was sold, because contrary to what he and my mother discuss about my future, I’m neither ignorant nor naïve.

I toss the blanket down, wiping away the tears. Screw it. I’ll sleep in my car.

But then he’s there, his body pressing into my back and his hands squeezing my waist.

I gasp. “No.” I try to push his hands away.

No more. No more. I drop my head back into him, trying to push against him, but I’m not sure if I’m fighting to get free or fighting because I want to hit someone. Tears stream down my face, and I suck in breath after breath.

But then I feel it.

His shallow breaths against my temple. And his arms slowly slipping around my body, holding me to him.

Slow. Tight. Strong. Warm.

I go still, his heat covering my back as his chest rises and falls against my spine, and I relax just enough to feel him hold me up. One arm wraps around my stomach, the other hand reaches around to cup my cheek as he grazes his mouth over my hair.

“We’re not dead yet,” he murmurs over my skin at my temple.

And then he turns my head, and before I can see his face, his mouth covers mine, swallowing my whimper. His tongue dives into my mouth, and I can’t breathe as he holds me strong and keeps me locked against his body.

Fuck …

My lungs scream, and fire covers my skin. I gasp, pulling my mouth away and inhaling air, but it takes only a second before he’s fisting my hair and biting my neck.

I cry out, electricity coursing down my thighs and up to the top of my head. I close my eyes, my heart leaping into my throat as he forces my shirt over my head, my arms flying up as he tears the fabric off me.

Pulling his mouth off my skin, he holds my tummy, unzipping my skirt, and I look down, watching his hand in the dark. The same Jaeger bracelet they all wear—three thin straps of brown leather entwined—circles his wrist with the emblem of the snake wrapped around an hourglass in the middle.

My skirt drops, and he takes my hand, guiding it down between my thighs as he gently peels my panties off until the tips of my fingers touch my wet clit.

“Keep going,” he whispers, kissing my hair.

A light sweat covers my forehead, and I can’t move. I can’t even think.

He devours my neck and kneads my breast as heat rushes between my legs and covers my body. I pant, whimpering. “Oh God,” I moan. “Stop, stop, please. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe.”

But he thrusts into me from behind, his jeans creating delicious friction on my ass. Almost touching the sensitive skin deep inside.

I bite my bottom lip so hard, I feel a sharp pain.

And I can’t stop. I don’t even care. I pull my underwear all the way off before I lean back into him, resting my head against his chest and rubbing myself slowly, riding my hand and knowing that he’s watching.

I close my eyes again, loving the feel of his hands on me, and smelling his hot skin, which reminds me of wood and earth and fuel and grease. Loving how the Jaeger boys wear their work on their clothes, and don’t get their muscle any other way.

He grows harder, resting his chin on the top of my head as he just holds my right hip in one hand and grips my ass with the other.

I rub the nub, starting to feel the tingle. A little more. I suck in a breath. A little more. I like him watching me. His fingers curl into my skin, digging, pulling, wanting me to fuck myself harder.

“Ah,” I groan. “Ah.” I roll and bounce harder and faster, and then …

He growls, yanks me back into his body, and cuts off my breath again, kissing me.

But before I can come, he leads me down onto the couch, flat on my stomach, and comes down behind me. I immediately lift my knee, opening myself up, and listen to him rip off his belt.

I squeeze the couch in my fist, my stomach pressing into the cool leather.

His hand presses into the sofa, next to my shoulder, and I moan as his fingers glide down my spine.

I feel his breath on my ear. “Krisjen,” he whispers, and goose bumps cover my body. “Don’t tell Trace about this.”

Trace won’t care, but I nod anyway.

He works the head of his cock inside me, takes hold of me on both sides where my thighs meet my hips, and thrusts.

I stretch as he bottoms out, and I cry out for a moment before his hand comes over my mouth.

His chest heaves again and again against my back. And then he stops moving—breathing—and I think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. His nose presses into my hair, and he inhales instead.

My pussy contracts around him, and I shift a little to ease the pressure. He’s so deep.

And then … he rises up, takes hold again, and pumps his hips. Again and again, slow at first, letting me adjust to him, and then he’s thrusting so fast and hard all I can do is hang on.

My hair sticks to my back, and I tighten my legs around him, loving the feel of his hands squeezing me. I said I came here because I had nothing else to do, but this is all I want to fucking do.

He grips my hips, sucks my shoulders, bites my back, and it’s so hard not to moan too loudly. I don’t care who sees. I just don’t want him stopping.

I feel my orgasm build again, push myself up on my elbows, and start backing into him. He leans over me as sweat trickles down my back, and I feel his hot breath in my hair.

I feel everything. The thick air on my skin. The clouds over the house. The leather underneath me, now damp with my sweat.

His hands holding me like I’m not dead yet.

Tears burn behind my eyelids, and I smile as he comes down, holding the front of my neck and pulling my head back to meet his. I grasp his hand, feeling the leather bands and warm metal around his wrist.

I arch my back, meeting each thrust as he pumps into me, and then I suck in air again and again until … my thighs course with heat, my insides burst open, and the orgasm explodes inside of me. I moan through his hand over my mouth, growing so fucking wet as it spreads through me. His body jerks in short, slow thrusts, and then he lets out a growl in my ear, and I feel him come inside me.

Oh God. I breathe hard. Oh God.

I inhale in and out, trying to calm down as I collapse onto the couch, exhausted.

But before I can catch my breath, I hear his voice in my ear.

“Someday,” he says as he squeezes my throat, “when you look, act, and smell like a pristine pair of fifteen-hundred-dollar heels, and you’re married to a lawyer or a banker who tastes like glue and parades you around like his little trophy …” He flicks his tongue over my ear, taunting me. “I can wonder if it’s my son he’s playing Daddy to.”

I round my eyes, my pussy clenching around his cock one more time as he pulls out and fastens up his jeans and belt.

I lie there for a second, my body already aching at his absence. But by the time I flip over and look around, he’s gone.

“Holy shit.” I scan the dark, empty living room. “Who the hell was that?”