Page 56 of Coveted By Cupid

“It’s nothing fancy. But it will fill you up and hopefully settle your stomach,” I say, setting the tray across her lap.

Placing two tablets in her hand, I watch her take them with a big sip of water. “Try eating, Butterfly.”

She takes a dainty bite, chewing slowly. I keep urging her as we both eat—well, I don’t really eat, more like inhale my food. A hard workout always makes me famished.

After she’s cleared half her plate, she sets down her fork, looking sleepy. I take the tray back to the kitchen and return to her. Her eyes are half-closed, ready for a nap. I help adjust the pillows, allowing her to lie down.

Not wanting her to fall asleep alone, I sit with her, waiting for sleep to pull her under. I run my hand over her silky face, enjoying the feel of her soft skin under my fingers. In her drowsy state, she leans into my touch, her face cradled in my hand.

My heart stutters in my chest as I watch the woman who has claimed me relax under my protection. I sit with her until her body settles and her breathing evens out.

“Rest, Butterfly,” I say, leaning in to kiss her softly on her pillow lips. “I’ll be here when you wake.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CUPID

As soon as Vanessa is asleep, I hop in the shower. The day is still young, and I have business to attend to, including a phone call I don’t want to make.

Normally, I handle club business in my office, but I made a promise to Vanessa as she drifted off to sleep that I’d be here when she woke up. I failed the first time and won’t be failing again.

After throwing on some jeans and a t-shirt, I head toward the dining room. I plant my ass in a chair at the circular table and pull out my cell to make the first crucial call of my day.

Atlas answers after a couple of rings. The first thing I hear is the laughter of little children, banging on things and running around in the background.

“Cruz! Easton! Quiet down. Your mama needs to rest,” he says, scolding who I assume are his young twins. “Hello?”

“Atlas, it’s Cupid. If this is a bad time, I can try again later.”

“It’s fine,” he says, the noise dying down in the background as if he had moved into a quieter area to speak with me. “What’s going on?”

There’s no easy way to say it other than ripping off the Band-Aid. “My woman—Vanessa—was nearly abducted last night on her way home from work.”

“WHAT?!” he thunders before lowering his voice, probably recalling his wife is napping. “Shit. Is she okay?”

“Other than a concussion, she’s fine and safe with me and my crew.”

“You should have told me sooner,” Atlas gripes. “My crew could have been on the case right away, possibly even caught the fuckers.”

“I understand Fort Collins is your city and you want to protect your community. However, my priorities were to take care of my woman’s injuries and to move her out of her apartment and into mine. Yeah, I should have contacted you sooner, but I’ve had my hands full the last twelve hours.”

Atlas breathes heavy down the line. “Tell me everything. When? Where? Who? Every goddamn detail.”

I share all the information from the night before, how Vanessa fought off her attackers outside her apartment complex, how there were three of them with a white van, how I got there and knocked out the one guy closest to Vanessa, and how the other two got away.

“You have one of them, don’t you?” Atlas says, his tone shifting with a hint of dark amusement.

“I do. But I’m not giving him to you,” I say with a hard edge to my voice. Atlas seems like the type of man who bulldozes his way through everything to have things go his way. It may work with his men, but it won’t work with me. “He tried to take my woman from me, and he needs to pay for it.”

Atlas is quiet on the other end of the line for a few seconds before saying, “You can have him. All I ask is for me and a few of my men to be present to ask questions. What you do with him afterwards is not my business.”

Thinking about my club, my property, and mine and my crew’s privacy, I’m not okay with his request. The Mercy Ravens MC may be fine to interact with occasionally, but they’re not Royal Bastards. We’re not friends—we’re associates at best, existing in close proximity. They don’t need to see where we keep people who have wronged our club. They don’t need to see what my buildings look like on the inside other than Whiskey Wheelers. We may work together on getting to the bottom of who’s behind these abductions, but that doesn’t mean we have to share everything.

“Not going to happen,” I say firmly. “My club will handle him, and I’ll pass along whatever information we collect.”

“That would be unwise,” Atlas says deadpan. “Handling interrogations is what my club does—this is our bread and butter. The military has trained us to interrogate efficiently with successful results. I’m not saying you or your man can’t do it, but my club does this on the regular.”

He has a point. Interrogations are not my crew’s forte—torture is. Torture is great for sending a message, but it doesn’t necessarily garner answers to questions.