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“Not looking for commitment. Just a fuck.”

He watched her for a moment longer than was comfortable. “That what you’re telling yourself?”

Felicity huffed out a quiet laugh and leaned back in her chair. “You always analyze strangers in bars?”

“Only the ones who walk in already angry.”

That hit a little too close to home.

Time to leave. “Well,” she said lightly, “thanks for the company.”

“You deserve better than an angry fuck,” he said quietly.

“It’s all I can afford to give.”

11

Reckless

Felicity drove. Fast. Reckless. Still angry.

The bar lights disappeared behind her, but the conversation stayed.

You deserve better than an angry fuck.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel.

She should’ve taken Carl apart when he’d stepped up. Should’ve let the night end the way she’d intended — with bruised knuckles and a bad decision.

Instead, she’d walked out.

Instead, she was … here.

Her headlights swept across Ronan’s gracious house as she pulled into the drive. “Gertrude,” she scoffed.

She had no business with a man like Ronan — decent, hardworking, the boy-next-door type.

She was the product of brutality. Generations of sickness. Perversion. Evil.

What she’d said back in the Iron Horse was true.

A fuck was all she could afford to give. All she was good for.

Felicity killed the engine and climbed out of the vehicle before she could change her mind.

The porch light was on. Warm. Welcoming.

She stalked past the lavender, up the steps, and pounded on the door.

Once. Twice. Three times.

The door swung open.

Ronan stood there shirtless. Navy sweatpants hung low on his hip, bunching on the top of his bare feet.

Her temper snapped. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Don’t you own a shirt?”

“Good evening, Deputy.”