Page 237 of Primal

“He’ll live.”

She gives me a look. “You’re not gonna get in trouble?”

“The Verge’s got a ‘no lawsuits, no questions’ policy. Besides”—my teeth graze her earlobe—“guy was handsy with what’s mine.”

“Kade.” She swallows. “You wanna know why I came here?”

I already do. I’ve read her texts. Seen the way she bites her lip, scrolling through Brett Tanner’s Instagram at 2 am.

“I just went through a bad breakup. And I’m—”

“Looking for a distraction,” I cut her off. “Got it.”

Her fingers trace idle patterns on my stomach. I catch her wrist before she can drift lower.

“What? Scared I’ll find your ‘power’ button?”

I nip her knuckles. “You already pressed it.”

She rolls her eyes, fingers skating down until they graze the jagged slash above my hip.

I go rigid.

She doesn’t notice, too busy tracing the scar’s raised edge. “Did you get stabbed or something?”

“Belt buckle.”

“Kinky.” She snorts. “No, really, how’d you get it?”

I could lie. Feed her some bullshit.

The truth spills out instead. “My mother wrapped the pickup around a goddamn pole two blocks from our house. Lucky Max called me from her phone. He was bleeding out in the backseat. Used my belt as a tourniquet.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry, Kade.”

“Mom wasn’t. She was fucking wasted.” I laugh. “Hell, maybe she even did it on purpose.”

“You think she—”

“I think some people don’t deserve to have kids,” I snap, rolling off Payton.

She sits up. “That’s why you stay. For Max.”

I don’t answer. Don’t have to.

“You covered it up,” she murmurs.

I smirk, hollow. “Some monsters don’t get tragic backstories. Just glow-in-the-dark paint and a cheap mask.”

She leans down.

I feel her breath first. Then her lips brush the scar—gentle, like an apology.

I tilt her face up. “Don’t.”

She smirks. “Too late. Already did.”

I flip her beneath me—moss compressing under our weight, her wrists locked in my fist before she can land a hit. The air hangs heavy around us—pine resin, sweat, and freshly fucked trouble.