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“Carter took care of him.” There’s no mistaking the pride in her voice. The puffing of her chest. Her admiration for my stepson. “Beat him up and sent him packing. I was knocked out the entire time. Although… I wish I hadn’t been.”
“No one’s going to lay a hand on you again, Amara.” I dip my chin, leveling her with a meaningful glare.
“No one,” Carter adds.
My attention cuts to him. His gray eyes speak volumes in the deafening silence of the penthouse.
He approves of me treating her like she’s ours.
They say more. They say he doesn’t know why that guy was there.
As discreet as this couple is, our members aren’t stupid. They were bound to catch Amara’s heated gazes at the boy who owns her heart. Bound to see his teeth grind whenever anyone gets close to her.
His lips curve in a vicious smirk. His final silent message to me.
Carter didn’t send the burglar packing. The insolent piece of shit who hurt Amara is undoubtedly on his last drive around the city. Inside the trunk of Shawn and Lance’s car.
He hasn’t shared any of it with her. I nod in understanding.
“You’re doing the eye conversation trick.” Amara’s long, blond hair whips with her head as she twists it from Carter to me. “Again.”
She’s not mad as most people would. She doesn’t feel left out. I swear she’s amused.
Her quirked eyebrow says as much.
The twinkling of her eyes is a balm to my anger. Sucks out the fury I can barely contain.
My shoulders relax; the thin line my lips made smooths out. Carter’s arm snakes around her, the corner of his lips hiking.
The little witch has this effect on us.
“Checking on Carter, that’s all,” I reassure her, placing a hand over his shoulder. “He said he’s fine.”
Instead of a friendly short slap, I let my palm linger. Carter’s muscles strain beneath my palm and his head tilts in a challenge. We’re no strangers to these heated face-offs.
We’ve been having them for months now.
The air crackles whenever I touch Carter. The heat cranks up in the penthouse when either of us walks shirtless around the house.
I’ve been convincing myself that I’m imagining things.
I probably am.
In the corner of my eye, I see Amara reaching her hand to Carter’s waist. She coughs, pinching him.
“Oh, right.” Carter pulls her tighter to his side. “Amara is moving in.”
“Carter!” she shrieks.
“What, pet?” He twists to her, and my hand falls off his shoulder. He’s not mine. “You asked me to tell him. So there I am. Telling him.”
Her eyebrows knit, her lips pursed. Her cheeks are redder than the bump on her head.
“I asked you to ask him.”
“There’s no need—”
She ignores him, spinning to me, twirling a long blond lock of hair around her finger in a nervous gesture. “Mr. Murdock—”
