Marked By The Devil (Devil's Riders 5)

And if it was my heaven, there would be plenty of breeze.

One thing that I knew for sure—there were no panties in paradise.

I gave her a look as I pulled in front and put the car in park. She looked nervous. That was good. She should be. What she’d tried to do back there . . . well, there would be a reckoning.

Once she woke up, she was going to have to pay the piper.

Chapter Seventeen

Molly

“Bed.”

I glared sleepily at Callaway. He was pointing at his bedroom, being bossier than a drill sergeant. I shuffled in there, feeling like I was walking through water.

“Lift your arms.”

I grumbled but did as he asked. He stripped me perfunctorily, then slipped an incredibly soft old T-shirt over my head. Considering he was nearly a foot and a half taller than me, not to mention wider, it fit me like a nightgown.

It was so soft against my skin that I made a loud ‘ahh’ sound. I was too tired to even stay mad at him as he settled me in his bed and pulled up the covers.

He gave me a wicked grin.

“Sleep tight, Princess.”

I blinked and closed my eyes. Just like that, I was out.

The smell of something delicious filled the air. I opened my eyes, realizing how hungry I was. My stomach grumbled as the days of barely eating caught up to me.

I had a split-second where I had no idea where I was. It was dark outside, and the only light was coming in around the edges of the closed door. I heard someone humming and making soft clanging noises.

Callaway. I relaxed instantly when I realized whose apartment I was in. He was cooking, from the smell of it.

The man was full of surprises.

I padded toward the kitchen and peeked inside, leaning against the doorframe. Callaway was cooking. His jeans fit him like a glove, showcasing his sexy ass and long legs. He wore an apron over his bare chest. I couldn’t help but let my eyes wander over all that exposed skin and big, thick muscles.

Cool your hormones, Molly. He’s just a guy, not a sex machine.

But he was a sex machine. He just happened to be a very nice sex machine who looked like the quintessential bad boy. The man knew what he was doing in the sack—and in the kitchen, from what I’d seen so far.

I scratched my hip, yawning sleepily. I wasn’t awake yet, but I could already tell I was more rested than I’d been in weeks, if not months. Years, maybe. The truth was, I hardly ever slept all that deeply because of worry and stress. Because I didn’t feel safe. Because I was alone.

It hit me like a ton of bricks.

I felt safe with Callaway.

The heavily-tattooed, motorcycle-riding, pierced to high heaven guy standing in front of me made me feel safe.

I shook my head, not ready to examine that all too closely. Instead, I tried to figure out what the hell he was making. The kitchen was controlled chaos, with bowls full of various things laid out, cooking utensils scattered over the clean countertop, and two pots simmering merrily on the 1950s-looking stove.

Now I really was confused. I saw the neat curved lines of taco shells lined on a tray, but the smell was distinctly Italian. Garlic, tomato, and basil filled my nostrils. It smelled incredible.

“Italian tacos?”

He turned, clearly not aware that I had been standing there ogling him. And his ass. Mostly his ass.

A lock of hair fell over his forehead and he shrugged sheepishly.

“I like mixing things up.”

I smiled, suddenly feeling more confident.

“I can’t wait to try it.”

He stared at me, the heat in his gaze doing crazy things to my insides.

“I guess I’ll get dressed.”

He didn’t say anything, just stared. I was starting to feel like a freak when he cleared his throat.

“You could take a shower. If you want.”

I nodded and smiled, making a swirling motion with my finger.

“Don’t let dinner burn.”

He blinked and seemed to come back to himself. He shook his head and gave me an exasperated look.

“Yeah, I got it.”

I was practically whistling as I grabbed my clothes and slipped into the bathroom. The water pressure was good, and I took the time to wash my hair with his yummy-smelling shampoo. I didn’t linger though. I wanted to call Tommy, see how he was.

I tried to suppress the urge to imagine the worst-case scenario. His going under again, being scared, alone as he felt consciousness slip away.

He’s okay. It’s over. He’s okay, Molls.

And anyway, there’s nothing I could do about it. Not even sitting there and staring at him every second of every day would keep him safe. That’s not how the world worked.

That dark thought nearly sent me to my knees. I’d been carrying the weight of the world for so long . . . and for what? I was just a human. Imperfect and definitely not all-powerful. So what was I making myself crazy for?