Page 4 of Raw & Reckless

I snarl out, venom dripping from every word, "Who the fuck are you and what do you want from Layla?"

A soft gasp catches behind my shoulder, and the realization hits me like a bucket of ice water: I just used her name out loud, even though she has never once introduced herself to me. But instead of screaming, questioning me, or running away in terror, she does something that surprises me as much as it unravels me.

She fists the rough fabric at the back of my leather cut, pulling herself desperately closer to my spine. Her immediate, unshakable trust in me is profoundly humbling, a fragile gift I‘ll never take for granted.

The two masked men exchange a sharp look, then their eyes flicker back up to my towering height. "We’re on the same team," one of them spits out. He’s trying to act tough, but I hear a distinct, nervous tremor vibrating through his voice.

My upper lip curls back in a sneer. "Doubt it."

The second man steps up, his voice low and sharp. "We both want the feds off our backs. A simple kidnapping should do the trick."

A dark, feral growl tears its way out of my chest. Every muscle in my body flexes as liquid fire boils beneath my skin. It’s right then, as he shifts his stance, that I spot a jagged, distinctive tattoo peeking out from beneath the edge of his balaclava on the right side of his neck.

My blood runs instantly cold, then roars back to life. I recognize that mark. It’s the elusive, hidden logo stamped onto the shipping crates that started this entire syndicate war at the docks weeks ago.

It all clicks into place with terrifying clarity. These bastards belong to the exact same international syndicate that hijacked King’s Logistics’ shipping routes to frame my club. They’ve been tracking Agent Davis, too, using him as a pawn. While the syndicate originally engineered the setup to let the Rebel Kings take the fall by the feds, it turns out the feds were getting too close to their real operation, so now they’re cutting ties with blood.

"Over my dead fucking body will you lay a hand on her," I rumble, the promise absolute.

One of the thugs puffs out his chest, opening his mouth to spew some pathetic threat, but I don't give him the satisfaction. My fist explodes forward, connecting squarely with his jaw. The sickening crack of cartilage echoes down the alley, and I take a grim, savage satisfaction in the shock widening his eyes as blood erupts from his shattered nose. He stumbles backward, clutching his face and sputtering a bloody, broken warning before he scrambles away into the dusk.

The second man throws his hands up defensively, backing away step-by-step. But his eyes are cold, calculating, and deeply ominous. They bore straight into mine before the man turns and bolts into the shadows.

I want to chase him down. I want to rip him apart limb from limb. But my frantic focus snaps back to the trembling woman standing right behind me. I can't chase ghosts right now. I have to tend to Layla, keep her safe, and somehow find a way to explain the monster she just clung to.

With a slow, heavy sigh that shakes my chest, I turn around to face the purple-eyed goddess I’ve become utterly, recklessly obsessed with in a few short weeks.

4

LAYLA

I’m standing face-to-face with the man who has spent the last two weeks watching me from the shadows. Technically, by every definition of the word, that makes him my stalker. But standing here, with the echoes of danger still humming in the alley air, I’m not even a little bit afraid of him.

Instead, my eyes trace the sharp, rugged lines of his face. I follow the hard angle of his jaw, the dark stubble shadowing his skin, the firm line of his lips, and those piercing green eyes that have followed me into my dreams for the last two weeks.

He looks down at me, his brow furrowing into a deep crease of concern as he asks if I’m okay, but his deep voice barely registers. I’m too captivated by him and the sheer, massive wall of his muscles, along with his heavy leather jacket, and his intensely masculine, earthy scent layered with a faint, clean hint of salt water.

When I don’t answer immediately, his steady gaze turns genuinely worried.

I swallow hard and nod stiffly, letting out a long, shaky breath I’ve been holding since those masked men cornered me. “I’m okay,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

The man lifts his massive hands slowly, deliberately, giving me every opportunity to back away. When I stay rooted to the spot, he rests his heavy palms on my shoulders, then slowly slides them down my arms, looking me over with clinical thoroughness as if inspecting me for damage.

His gaze and his gentle, warm touch trigger a sudden, rushing wave through my body. The tingling, tickling sensation that used to pool between my thighs every time I caught him watching me instantly morphs into a heavy, throbbing ache the longer his hands linger on my skin.

“Thank you,” I stutter out, my eyes fluttering shut as I helplessly bask in his touch.

I can’t even remember the last time anyone touched me with such kindness. I never thought this man would be capable of such gentleness, but there’s no denying the way his touch both electrifies and comforts me. Locked inside my brother’s house ninety percent of the time, I’ve never had the opportunity to find a boyfriend, or even a friend who might casually hold my hand or give me a comforting hug. Maybe that’s why my feet betray me, teetering forward until I collide straight against his solid, granite chest.

My stalker-turned-hero immediately wraps his arms around me, pulling me into a protective, encompassing embrace. It is even more life-giving, more anchoring than I had ever imagined during all those hours watching him from afar. When he starts gently stroking his large hand through my hair, I bury myself further into his chest, barely holding back a jagged sob.

He starts to pull back, perhaps thinking he’s overstepping, but I instinctively cling to the fabric of his jacket, letting out a pathetic, tiny whimper.

“Not yet,” I squeak, instantly mortified by my own desperate, automatic response.

He doesn’t give me time to doubt myself. He simply folds me deeper into his arms, holding me tighter and with more intention. His warm lips brush softly against my temple, and I feel more than hear his deep voice rumble against my ribs.

“I’m not going anywhere.”