Page 29 of Butterfly
Shiloh looks stunned at the pile of information I just threw at him, and a tiny bit wary of this suggestion. He doesn’t strikeme as a huge people person, but I swear if he goes and sits in the cold outside to wait for me instead of heading to the lounge, I will be so choked.
“Wait for me, California,” I murmur, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cold, sharp cheekbone.
I turn and waddle down the hallway in my full gear, but before I reach the doorway of the locker room, I glance over my shoulder to see him.
Watching me.
His hand pressed to his cheek.
His face flushed red and his lips swollen by my kiss.
It’s the prettiest fucking thing I’ve seen in a long time, and the taste of his kiss carries me through the fastest after-game routine I’ve ever done. I finish everything in record time, rushing through the doors before I can be called back to do more, but when I reach the lounge, it’s empty.
The food has been packed up and the security officer stationed at the door doesn’t recognize the description of Shiloh I give him when he asks who I’m looking for.
The parking lot is empty.
My Jeep is empty.
He doesn’t respond to a text I send asking where he went.
Asking if he’s safe and warm.
I wait in my cold vehicle until the heat starts pumping through the vents, just in case he’s around here somewhere.
But he’s gone.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
SHILOH
Wait for me,California.
His words echo in my head, dancing recklessly with the memory of how warm his mouth felt pressed against mine.
Donovan really doesn’t understand the danger he’s putting himself in—I tried to warn him. I’m trying to warn him now bynotwaiting, by not showing up at his apartment while he sleeps, to let him know exactly what kind of man he kissed.
I want to give him a chance—a real chance—to protect himself, to change his locks, to keep me away… because I know now if I see him again, there’s no turning back.
Not with the taste of his bloody kiss on my tongue.
Not with the knowledge of the way he looked, pupils slightly blown, body lithe and perfect, while he looked down at me.
Not now that he’s worn my art.
There’s no turning back for either of us if he lets me in again. I might be a monster, but I’ll give him a chance to save himself… because I know the only thing I’m going to do is ruin him.
The problem is, I’m not sure if a locked door will keep me out. At this point, I’m not sure if there’s a damn thing he could do to keep himself safe from the urges slowly swirling andcollating in the depths of my chest. They reach out with greedy tendrils that make a home at the tips of my fingers and demand I paint.
Paint him.
But I know the cost, and as much as I want to… I don’t think I’m ready to bleed him dry, and I know I wouldn’t be satisfied with just a taste.
I need all of Donovan.
Which is why he needs to run, and why I have to find a way to give him that chance.
That way presents itself two nights later. I’ve gotten a few texts from Donovan—a snapshot of his breakfast, him asking if I’m coming to his next game. He nearly breaks my self-control when he sends me a shot of his helmet. I can’t even look at the text that comes after, because I still have his key and I know I could sneak into his place in the middle of the night while he slept.
