Page 65 of The Beekeeper

Frankie chuckled. “That’s harsh to say about your friend.”

“It’s the truth.” Harsh would be what I would do to him if he touched her.

I knew Marc. Genuine but not committed. He was here and happy to play the game just like I’d been for the better part of my life—discarding people left and right before they had a chance to use me. Before they had a chance to hurt me.

“Well, maybe my definition of appreciate is a little looser than yours,” Frankie replied, and winked at me. “She’s got a lot going on. She doesn’t need serious right now. She needs fun. Someone to bring her out of her shell…or I guess I should say hive.”

I wanted to punch something. Mostly Marc, but really anything would do.

I’d even told him Harper was off-limits. Did he think I wasn’t serious? Sure, I’d never put restrictions on anyone like this before, but, dammit, I told him no.

But you also told her no, a small voice in my head reminded me.

Apparently, I could barely survive not letting myself have her, but I couldn’t survive the idea that someone else would.

“Blaze…”

“Sorry.” I jerked, my attention having only a single tie to the dock of reality, the rest of it already chasing Harper back to the house. “I think I’m going to head out.”

“Are you sure? They’re about to start s’mores⁠—”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said and breezed around her, beelining for my daughter to say good night and hoping Pais wouldn’t change her mind and want to leave with me.

She couldn’t be at the house for the things I wanted to say to Harper. For the things I needed to do.

Gravel kicked up against my SUV as I stopped hard in front of the house. I’d taken the long dirt drive too fast for the terrain, dust and gravel flying in every direction to get back as fast as I could.

There was no other car parked except the truck, but that didn’t mean she was alone.

I got out and slammed the door, trying to remember if I’d even seen Marc’s SUV at the Kinkades’, but I couldn’t remember. Fuck. If he was here⁠—

“Harper!” I shouted in warning before blowing through the door and praying I wasn’t about to walk in to someone else touching her. I hated to think convicted murderer would be the reason my daughter was taken away from me.

The door banged into the wall and bounced back hard enough to shut behind me as Harper rushed out of her room.

Fuck.

Air catapulted out of my chest, my eyes dragging over her.

Fucking fuck.

Her wet hair was in a rope over her shoulder and she had on a tiny yellow bathrobe with a ruffle around the bottom edge.

“What’s wrong?” Her eyes zipped around. “Where’s Paisley? Is everything⁠—”

“Is Marc here?” I couldn’t focus on anything until I knew.

“What?” she gasped, lifting her hand to her throat like she was trying to stop her heart from jumping up into it.

“Is. Marc. Here?”

She went to answer and then stopped herself. “Why?”

“Dammit, Harper,” I hissed and stalked by her, leaving the last vestiges of my sanity in my wake.

“What are you doing?” she called after me as I went into her room and looked around. In the recesses of my mind, as soon as I saw her, I knew he wasn’t here, but the primal part of me not only needed to see with my own two eyes. I needed her to see me—to know she’d done this to me.

“Blaze!” She grabbed my arm, and I whipped around, savoring her soft gasp.