I freeze as soon as the words leave my mouth. Peach butter.I made peach butter. For him.
I didn’t even think about it. Didn’t register it until now. Somewhere between the flour and the insomnia, I’d made something sweet with his nickname in it. Without planning to. Without realizing it.
Fuck. Landon is in my subconscious.
10
LANDON
Jasmine’sstill asleep come noon. Meanwhile, I’ve been up since three. Haven’t slept a damn minute. Not after what she said. Not after hearing her whisper that she'd rather be awake with me than asleep withhim. Who the bloody hell is him?
It took every ounce of control I had tonotlet the beast in me take over. To not grab her face, kiss the fear off her lips, and demand the name of the man who haunts her sleep. It almost fucking killed me to not go out hunting before the sun even rose with no name, or face to go by.
I don’t know who he is. But I know, without question, that putting him in the ground would be the easiest thing I’ve ever done. And his blood—his screams—would be the sweetest fucking sound I’ve ever heard.
Until I hear Jasmine moan my name. Until Itasteher. Then that man will come in second.
That thought alone is enough to make me punch harder.
I slam my fist into the heavy bag again, knuckles raw under the wraps. The chain rattles overhead, metal squealing, sweatdripping down my back and soaking through the waistband of my shorts.
This gym’s quiet during the day—most people are too busy living their safe, normal lives. Most of theseriousathletes came at the crack of dawn and won’t return until way after four.
The only two people in this entire gym are me and my adoptive father Bugsy. He’s sitting on the bench, arms folded over his thick chest, watching me with that same wild grin he’s had since the first time he found me swinging fists into the air—twelve years old, angry, and starving for something solid to hit.
“Whew!” he hollers, clapping his hands loud enough to echo off the high ceilings. The heavy bag shudders on its chain, still swinging from the last blow I threw. “Who the fuck pissed you off,Lanny?”
I chuckle. “Who hasn’t?”
Bugsy lets out a low laugh, deep and warm. “Fair enough.”
Bugsy’s forty-three, built like a damn wall—six-four, solid muscle, skin the color of rich mahogany and a voice like gravel soaked in bourbon. Tattoos climb both arms, and the scar over his left eyebrow still splits wide when he smiles. He’s got a presence that fills a room before he even speaks, but it’s not just size—it’senergy.Loud, protective, unshakable. The kind of man you either fear or trust completely.
He raised me and Conner both. Took us in when we had no one, fed us, trained us, kept us from killing each other in the same twin-sized room above the gym. Taught us discipline with one hand and how to knock a man’s jaw loose with the other.
I place a gloved hand against the heavy bag, and slow its movements. “I don’t know, Bugs. I’m trying to hold on, but--”
“Hey, I get it.” He huffs, running an ashed hand over his short waved hair. “The world ain’t really a place for good things.”
I rip the velcro of my right glove open with my teeth and yank it off, letting it fall to the floor with a soft thud. My knuckles throb under the wraps, but I don’t care.
“Ihavegood things,” I say quietly. “Jasmine… is a good thing.”
Bugsy watches me for a beat, nodding slowly, but his jaw’s tight. “No, Jasmine’s a Raider thing.”
I glance down. Swallow hard. “I think I really like her, Bugs. And last night… she shared some things with me. Personal shit. Deep shit. And the fuckingbeast, Bugs—he almost came out.”
Bugsy’s eyes narrow, his whole face sharpening. “You told me you had that guy under wraps.”
I rub the back of my neck, teeth clenched. “I did.”
His stare drills into me. “You sure?”
When I was younger, I fought in Bugsy’s gym. Fought so much, he made me get my hands licensed as lethal weapons the day I turned eighteen. Said it was law and insurance, but really, it was about the line I kept toeing.
The line I eventually crossed. One fight—that’s all it took. One hit to the temple. One rush of red behind my eyes. I blacked out and when I came to, the kid I was fighting was on the floor, not moving. Paralyzed from the waist down. Bugsy pulled me from the ring that night. Said I neededcontrol—and until I found it, I had no business throwing punches.
I hated him for it. For taking away the only thing I was ever good at. I didn’t speak to him for weeks. But time passed, and I got over it. He agreed to train me again. On the condition that I learned tothinkbefore I fought. That I’d never let the beast win again. He doesn’t know what Conner does for me to keep the beast away, if he did, Bugsy wouldn’t know what to do. He would think he failed us, when he truly did save Conner and me from the worst parts of ourselves.
