“Dammit, Gunner, I didn’t want you to find out about them like this.”
“Come on.” He wrapped her in the towel because she’d started to shiver.
“I don’t have regrets.”
“I do, Avery. It’s my fault you sank deeper into this world.”
“I would’ve been here sooner or later. It’s my legacy, remember?” she said almost defiantly as she stepped out of the tub and walked into the adjoining bedroom, holding the towel around her.
Gunner started after her. She was still in pain, and pretending everything was fine when it goddamn wasn’t. So what was this all about? Revenge? Redemption? Or more than a generous helping of both?
He followed her now, found her sitting on the bed, holding a sketch pad. It was brand-new, and there were pencils there too. She must’ve asked someone to pick them up on one of their runs into town.
“Draw me,” she told him.
The seeds for his revenge against Landon had been planted when he’d found Josie on the floor. He just hadn’t seen a way out that didn’t involve him losing what little he had left. And when his art had soothed him, he’d clung to that, because he didn’t want to lose it again.
The art—the tattooing—was to honor Josie and what she’d done for him. But she’d always known that his art was important to him.
Avery wasn’t going to let him forget that. She dropped the towel. “Do it. Scars and all.” And just like that, she fucking posed for him. “Plan what other tattoos you’ll do after that.”
Those he would draw right on her body, just so he could get the curves right. For now, he concentrated on sketching the warrior he saw in front of him. Because he didn’t see the scars, not the way she’d thought he would. “I’m drawing you exactly as I see you.”
“Tell me what you see,” she said.
“You. Beautiful survivor. Map of where you’ve been, how far you’ve come.” He looked up.
“The scar over your heart . . .” He paused, then bent down to sketch again. “Means you’ve been given more room to let people in. More room for me and all my mistakes.”
“Not so many mistakes,” she said softly. He heard the smile in her voice as he traced a breast on paper with the edge of the pencil.
“Scars make you stronger.”
“Until I had them, I never understood what people meant when they said that.”
“But now you do.”
“Yes.”
“When I look at you, I don’t see scars, though. I see . . . you.”
“And places you want to tattoo.”
“That too.” He stood, moved closer. Traced the pencil’s eraser over the lines on her breasts. “I’ve got plans. Short-term and long-term.”
“Does short-term involve you in my bed?”
“Definitely.”
Gunner’s hand wound around the back of her neck as he spoke. He dropped the sketchbook onto the night table as she stood, pressed her naked body against his clothed one.
Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it. But she’d never felt more strong and sure in her life.
“Don’t be gentle with me. Don’t you dare,” she told him. Something glinted in his eyes and he swooped her up and brought her over to the bed. But instead of covering her body with his, he rolled them so she was on top of him. She stared down at him, wondering how he could know so much, how he could just know what she needed.
“Go ahead, woman. Have your way with me,” he murmured. He wound his hands around the metal bar across the headboard. “Use my T-shirt. Cuffs. Whatever you’ve got.”
“I want you to touch me,” she said, even though she knew he was right, that she wouldn’t handle that well.
Reluctantly, she used the handcuffs from Gunner’s bag, because she knew he would have a tougher time getting out of those. Hated that Landon had done this to her and then realized that she never, ever wanted Landon in her mind, in her bed ever again. That would mean he won, and she couldn’t let that happen.
She kissed him. He kissed her back but let her set the rhythm. She gripped his hair, kissed him like there was no tomorrow as the familiar passion filled her. She was wet between her legs, her nipples hard.
Her body still worked. Maybe scars really did make you stronger.
His cock was hard against her sex. And although she wanted him inside her, this felt too good to stop. It had been too long, and before she could think about it, her belly clenched with pleasure. “Gunner.”
She heard the surprise in her own voice.
“Yeah, baby. Just like that. Keep looking at me. You’re with me, and you’re safe. And you’re so fucking beautiful, I can’t stand it.”
She rubbed against him until the orgasm burst through her. She saw stars, held on to his shoulders.
And then she wept. When she was able to stop, she wiped her eyes, looked at him and then at the sketchbook.
He’d drawn her with no scars at all.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Nearly four months had passed since Landon tried to firebomb them. He hadn’t called, and things had been quiet on that front. Not so much with Landon’s business, which Jem helped Gunner trace.
Landon—Drew, Donal or both—was still active. And so their plan to have Drea pose as the wife of a recently indicted businessman was moving forward full steam.
And Jem wasn’t happy about it at all. He’d voiced his unhappiness in every way, shape or form he could think of.
“It’s not them. It’s us,” Gunner had muttered just last night, and Key nodded in agreement.
“And we’ll drive ourselves and them crazy if we keep focusing on it,” Jem had added.
“You were already there,” Key pointed out.
Now Jem concentrated on putting a microphone and camera buttons in some of the high-fashion bags and accessories Drea would wear when she met with Landon. Grace had taken her shopping, with Dare as their escort.
He’d grumbled something about it being horrible, but he’d come home with new clothes, Jem noted.
But the transformation hadn’t stopped with clothing. Drea spent part of the day at some kind of spa—and Dare got a manicure, Grace was quick to point out—and when she came home, she looked beautiful, but different. She looked high society. The right makeup and hairstyle, the right dress and jewelry and suddenly Drea was Andrea, pronounced with an O sound.
Drea was used to dealing with deadly maniacs. She’d been threatened for so long, standing in a room with men of Landon’s caliber wasn’t going to throw her.
That didn’t mean that Jem was ready to let her do it. And the fact that he’d bucked the idea so hard let him know that he had feelings for Drea. Real goddamned feelings, and he’d somehow let that happen when he’d promised himself he never, ever would.
She stood in front of him almost shyly, the expensive fabric of the well-cut dress draping over her perfectly. Her legs were long and lean and finely muscled and the heels she wore emphasized that.
He’d forced himself to stop sleeping in her bed weeks ago, when the planning intensified. They hadn’t done much more than kiss, even though he wanted much more.
“You look fucking fantastic,” he told her, and she blushed.
“Jem, come on. I don’t look like me.”
