I unlock Aspen’s apartment door and slip inside.
The interior is dark, which makes sense. It’s the middle of the fucking night. But I couldn’t sleep, and all I want to do is curl up next to Aspen. To smell her familiar scent and feel her curves. To make her moan delicious, dirty things in a half-sleep daze…
Too late, I register the moving shadow. It detaches from the wall and flies at me, and I barely have time to get my hands up before I’m slammed into the wall.
I let out a grunt. It hurts, but I’ve taken worse hits at practice. I shove them off me and duck, automatically driving forward. My shoulder buries into his stomach, and we rock back. His fists bound into my sides. His punches are hard enough to crack my ribs—and if I can’t play, then I’m fucked. So I release him and stagger backward.
He comes at me again, this time taking us to the floor. We crash into the stools against the kitchen island, bringing them down with us. We roll, and suddenly, hands are around my neck.
Squeezing.
I grip his wrists and glare up at the stranger. I can make him out now, the dark tattoos that crawl up his skin, all the way up his neck. His eyes are so cold.
“Uncle!” Aspen screams. “Stop!”
She’s suddenly beside us, slapping his shoulder.
He glances up at her.
My vision flickers.
“Let him go,” she demands. “It’s Steele.”
His fingers loosen, and blood rushes back to my brain. I gasp, furious that I was just brought to my back by this asshole.
My mind is slow to supply his name. And then it does, a lightbulb flickering to life inside my head: Cillian Monroe.
Her uncle stands and pushes Aspen back. Thalia is in the entrance of the hallway, a robe wrapped around her.
I leap to my feet, too pissed to be caught lingering on the floor. The room wavers, the floor pitching. I steady myself on the kitchen island and ignore how my head swims.
Fuck.
“Are you okay?” Aspen shoves past her uncle and stops in front of me, her hands fluttering between us like she doesn’t know where—or if—to touch me.
“Peachy,” I mutter. My mood sours, and I focus on the man over Aspen’s shoulder. “Cillian Monroe, I presume?”
He inclines his chin. “And you’re the asshole who’s been making my niece’s life a living hell?”
I go to deny it, then pause. Because, frankly? Yep, I’m guilty of that.
“Who else has access to their apartment?” I tuck Aspen to my side, my arm over her shoulders. She must’ve been sleeping in just a long t-shirt. Thick sweatpants hide her legs and pool around her ankles. On second thought, the t-shirt might be mine.
That makes me absurdly happy.
“No one,” Cillian answers, his eyes narrowing. “Why?”
“Someone stole Aspen’s music binder from her room.”
Besides, my old set of copied keys didn’t work the other day—which meant someone changed the locks. I obviously fixed that problem and promptly made a new set before Aspen even noticed the apartment key was missing from her ring.
No, the bigger issue is that someone thinks they can just come in here and take what doesn’t belong to her.
“You’ve been camping out in here,” I continue, glancing at Thalia. Could the roommate be behind it? Why else would Aspen have gone out her window this morning? Only if someone was in her living room or kitchen, making things awkward.
The more I think about it, the likelier suspect she becomes.
Thalia can’t meet my gaze, and Aspen winces.
Her uncle’s gaze moves to her. “Is that true?”
“I thought…” She shrugs, her expression sheepish. “I’m sure it’ll turn up.”
I grunt.
“This isn’t really a two a.m. conversation, is it?” Thalia asks. “Seriously. Men.” She comes over and rights one of the stools. Then the other. She glares at us over her shoulder, then heads toward the bedrooms. “I’m going back to sleep.”
“Sweet dreams,” Cillian calls. Sarcastic. Ish.
My nose wrinkles.
Aspen lets out a huff and takes my hand. Her fingers lace with mine, and she yanks me along with her after Thalia. Down the dark hall to her bedroom. She locks the door behind us and leans on the painted wood, her hand resting on the knob.
“What are you doing here?”
“How long has your uncle been sleeping over?” I counter, touching my throat. I don’t like people getting the upper hand on me. My skin crawls, and I shift my weight. Part of me wants to drag her out of here and back to my place, where I know it’s safer. Maybe not for her when she’s solo, but for us. And my ego that she values so much.
“What was your plan?” She toys with the hem of her shirt.
“Maybe I came to watch you sleep.” I glance at her bed. It looks like a nest more than anything, with more blankets than usual.
But any plans of curling up beside her have shifted. Now, I want to make her scream with her uncle and roommate on the other side of the door.
Mmm. Yeah. Option B it is…
“Come here,” I order, crooking my finger at her.
She pushes off the door and moves toward me. I hook my fingers in the front of her sweatpants and drag them down a few inches, revealing my handiwork. The tattoo stands out against her pale flesh, and I drop to my knees to see it better. It’s healing nicely—thanks in part to somehow keeping my distance from her this week. A little bit of torture… but better that than get it infected.
Plus, seeing my name on her skin gives me a certain thrill.
“Steele.” She grips her sweatpants at her hips and keeping them up. “We can’t.”
“Nonsense.” Although it is a bit peculiar of her. I ignore it and order, “Sit and spread your legs, sweetheart. Show me my pussy.”
She sucks her lower lip between her teeth.
“I have my period,” she mutters.
Oh.
“Yeah, I just got it tonight. So you may as well go home—”
“Asp?”
She pauses. “What?”
“Shut up and get in bed.”
It surprises her. I clench my fists at the idea of any boy making her feel worthless when she’s bleeding. What’s a little blood anyway? I happen to like the stuff.
She finally moves back and crawls onto the bed, lying on her side. I follow her, glancing at her bedside table. It’s got what I would expect to be normal items—a glass of water, a small bottle of pain relievers.
“What happens when you get your period?” I ask, gesturing at her abdomen. “Cramps?”
“Yeah. My lower back spasms sometimes, and everything gets sore.” She bites her lip again. “And…”
“And?”
“My nipples.”
I try not to smile at her low voice. Sounds like she’s almost embarrassed. “What about them, sweetheart?”
“They get sensitive. Sometimes to the point of hurting.”
I nod once. “And what hurts right now?”
“My back.”
I kick off my shoes and roll her onto her stomach. She lets out a squeak but quickly goes still when I push the shirt up her back. I run my hands along either side of her spine, my fingers digging into her muscles ever so gently.
She groans.
“That’s my girl.” I continue to massage her back, paying attention to her lower back. She’s got knots, from stress or her period, I don’t know, but she seems to sink into the mattress with every touch. “Let me help you.”
After a while, her breathing evens out. I stretch out beside her and pull the blankets up and over us, angling my body toward hers. And while I know I’m a sucker, part of me enjoyed helping her, making her feel a little better.
So with that in mind, I try not to think about what’s coming.
