Page 14 of Ruined By King

I laugh, and the sound surprises me. I laugh a lot when I'm with him. More than I have in years, maybe ever. There's something about being here, in this room, in this bed, that makes me feel lighter. Like I can finally breathe.

This is new. The easiness between us. The first few times were all urgency and desperation — fast and hard and hungry, like we were both afraid it would disappear if we slowed down. But somewhere along the way, things shifted. Now there's this. Lazy conversations in the dark. Him making me coffee before I leave. The way he pulls me against his chest when we're done and just holds me, like he's not ready to let go.

Inside jokes that nobody else would understand. The way he says my name — soft, possessive, like it belongs to him now.

Real feelings. The kind I swore I'd never let myself have for a man like him.

"What time do you have to be back?" he asks, buckling his belt.

"Before sunrise. My father's been watching me closer lately."

His jaw tightens at the mention of Rocky, but he doesn't say anything. We have an unspoken rule — we don't talk about the clubs, the rivalry, all the reasons this thing between us is impossible. When I'm here, none of that exists. It's just us.

But it's getting harder to pretend.

"Come here," he says.

I climb out of bed and pad across the floor to him, the concrete cold under my bare feet. He pulls me against his chest, his arms wrapping around me, and I let myself sink into the warmth of him. I press my cheek against his heartbeat and close my eyes.

"I don't like you driving back alone this late," he murmurs against my hair.

"I've done it a dozen times."

"Doesn't mean I like it."

I pull back to look at him. "Are you worried about me?"

"Always."

The word is simple, but the weight behind it makes my chest ache. This man — this dangerous, powerful, impossible man — worries about me. Thinks about me when I'm not here. Wants to keep me safe.

I reach up and trace the scar through his eyebrow, the one I've kissed a hundred times now. "You know I can take care of myself."

"I know." He catches my hand and presses a kiss to my palm. "Doesn't stop me from wanting to take care of you anyway."

I'm in so much trouble. Because I don't want him to stop.

"I'll be fine," I say softly. "I'm always fine."

"You better be." He cups my face in his hands and kisses me — slow and deep, the kind of kiss that feels more like a promise than a goodbye. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark and serious. "Text me when you get home."

"I will."

I get dressed while he watches, neither of us saying much. The silence isn't awkward — it's comfortable, lived-in. Like we've been doing this for years instead of weeks.

That thought should scare me. It doesn't.

At the door, I pause and look back at him. He's standing by the bed, arms crossed, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. Something soft underneath all that hardness. Something that looks a lot like what I'm feeling.

"Same time tomorrow?" I ask.

"I'll be here."

I slip out into the hallway, careful to avoid the main room where the brothers might still be drinking. The back exit is my usual route — out through the storage area, across the lot to where I park my car two blocks away. Nobody sees me come, nobody sees me go.

That's the theory, anyway.

The drive home is quiet, the desert dark on either side of the highway. I keep the radio off, letting myself replay the last few hours. King's hands. King's voice. The way he held me after, like he wasn't ready to let go. Like I mattered.