Page 82 of Angel

They are all aware of my feelings for Sophie and I admit this is a little left of field.

“I have my reasons.”

“You don’t trust her.”

He shakes his head. “You’re a fucking hypocrite.”

My brothers are the only men I allow to call me out because it’s done out of concern for me. We may not be blood, but we fight like family and I push his comment aside.

“Sophie appears to have a liking for masked men in leather. I’m testing her loyalty before⁠—”

He nods, “I understand. I’m sorry, man.”

“Be sorry for me if she fails the test. Don’t be sorry that I had a lucky escape.”

I fix him with a dark glare. “Don’t hold back. Give it your best shot.”

I’m not happy about this. What if she–?

I say nothing because the mere thought of Havoc, or anyone in existence having their hands on my woman, drives the demon in me to distraction.

I pull on my helmet, conversation over. I made the call. I just hope it doesn’t blow up in my face.

CHAPTER 33

SOPHIE

The aroma of pancakes is heavy in the air as I wander into the kitchen at breakfast. Jason is shirtless, wearing silk pajama bottoms, his jaw rough and unshaven and his eyes heavy, as if he didn’t sleep last night.

Something about him raises my suspicions, and I wonder if he was even here last night.

“Morning, Sophie.”

His smile is fleeting. A little cold, if I’m honest, and a shiver runs down my spine.

Something has changed.

Perhaps my guilt is playing tricks on me. The fact I cheated on him with Angel in my sleep is weighing heavily on my conscience. They were both there. I wanted them both and now, as I wake from a heavy dream, it’s as if a fog has lifted.

Angel is a dream, a fantasy if you like. Jason is real and everything I ever wanted and is giving out all the right signals.

He is the man I should be fixated on. Not the fantasy in my head that is a lost cause before it even began.

I swallow hard as he points to the coffee waiting for me on the counter.

“Do you want to say something, Sophie?”

Am I mistaken? Is he unusually abrupt?

“Yes.”

I slide onto the bar stool and decide to come out with it.

“Why did you lock your bedroom door last night?”

He shrugs, no change at all in his demeanor. No tensing of his shoulders, a frozen hand in midair as he flips the pancakes. It’s as if I asked for creamer for my coffee.

“I always lock my door.”