“Hey, mi casa es no tu casa!” I screech as he perches himself up on the edge of my bed.
“Tranquila, mami,” he says, voice dipped in that gravel-soft tone that sends goosebumps up my spine.
“Oh, so now you’re bilingualanduninvited?” I roll my eyes and close my laptop with a huff. “Impressive. Truly.”
“Tu cama me extrañaba,” he murmurs, running a lazy hand along the comforter. “And don’t lie—I know you missed me too.”
I throw a pillow at him. He catches it midair, like it’s a damn feather, and just smiles wider.
“You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re wearing my hoodie,” he points out, nodding toward the oversized black hoodie I forgot I stole from the laundry pile two days ago. “So I’d say we’re even.”
I glance down and groan. “Don’t read into it. Everything else was dirty.”
“Right…don’t worry,” he smirks, leans to the side on his right elbow. “I like you in my clothes…but sadly you need to change.”
“Why? Your girlfriend’s coming over?” I snort, moving my laptop to the side.
Landon slowly licks his lips, and it’s only now—sitting here in the soft glow of my lamp, still wearing his hoodie, still pretending like we’re not spiraling toward something dangerous—that I realize:
If he had a girlfriend back in Britain… I wouldn’t just be heartbroken. I’d befurious.
Rage in my bones, claws-out,you-used-mekind of fury. Because no one,no one, gets to be the first guy I can breathe around—the first one I let touch me without my skin crawling—and then turn around and pretend it didn’t mean a goddamn thing. I mean who does he think he is--
“Stop…” he coos, his voice low, warm, knowing. His fingertips wrap around my left ankle, gently. “I can see your mind running. There is no girlfriend, but we do have dinner.”
I sit up fast enough he has to release my ankle, and I cross my legs underneath me.“Dinner?”
“Yes,” he says, calm as ever. “You know—food, people, conversation. The works.”
I narrow my eyes. “What people? What food? What conversation?”
Landon sighs and runs a hand through his hair, standing up with that signature stretch that makes his shirt ride just high enough to show off his upsettingly sexy v-line.
“You’re going to meet some… unsavory friends of mine,” he says. “People I don’t get to say no to.”
My gut drops. “What?”
His eyes meet mine, steady and unblinking.
“We’ve been summoned,” he says. “By the Raiders.”
I almost choke on my own spit. “TheRaiders?”
Landon just nods, like we’re talking about the weather and not the most violent, untouchable biker gang this side of the country. They’re what nightmares are made out of, and one of the reasons the Cartel isn’t as powerful as they could be is due to their alliance with the Italian Mafia. Crossing the Raiders is like crossing fucking Italy and I’ve seen enough of theGodfatherto know you don’t cross fucking Italy.
I scramble off the bed. “Landon, the Raiders? Are youinsane?”
“Sometimes,” he says, voice quiet. “But not right now. I don’t get to ignore them, Peach, and neither do you.”
My pulse spikes. “Why would they wantmethere?”
“I don’t know,” he says, tone clipped. “But you need to be dressed and ready. We leave in an hour.”
“Anhour?” I snap. “Landon, are you serious?—”
“And don’t wear anything that’ll get me into a fight.”
