Page 5 of Kane
Jasper holds me closer to his chest.
He smells like alcohol, cigarettes, coffee, and musky cologne. It’s both nauseating and comforting at the same time.
“No,” he says. “Leslie, I can’t let them—”
“You have to, Jas,” she says. “You’re not his father, and with his mother—”
“I don’t care,” Jasper says, and I can’t help but cry. People are still yelling, and something smells like smoke. I think I’m going to be sick.
“Detective Carson, with all do respect,” someone else chimes in, but Jasper’s grip on me tightens.
“I promised her,” he growls, but his growl isn’t like Daddy’s. It’s deeper. “I fucking promised her I would not let him disappear into the system, and I will be damned to let that fucking sperm donor Cydney Rose anywhere near him, blood or no blood.”
“And if we do our job, Detective, he won’t,” she says.
Jasper holds me tight, and I feel his heartbeat against my cheek. Fast, like a race car.
“It’s Kane,” he says solidly. “His name is Kane.” I feel Jasper’s gaze on me, hot like fire.
“It’s what he likes to be called. Isn’t that right, Kane?
“I want my Mama,” I cry.
“Fucking hell,” Jasper says. “I’m sorry, buddy, but your mama—”
“Jasper,” the woman yells, her voice full of worry. “Maybe you should let the social worker—”
“No.” He says plainly. “No, he needs to hear this from someone he knows.”
Jasper’s lips brush the outer edge of my ear.
“Your mama’s safe now,” he whispers. But his voice wiggles.
Mama isn’t safe.
She’ll never be safe.
Because she’s dead, and we’ll never be together again.
Chapter One
Kane
New York City, Present Day
The sounds of the city echo outside; sirens and blaring horns, the unrelenting pitter patter of rain on the window. My head hurts like a bitch; a heavy migraine forming between my eyes and my throat is parched as fuck. I feel like absolute shit. But I guess that’s par for the course because I can’t remember the last time I felt good, especially after a night of drinking.
And fucking, because I know these aren’t my sheets clinging to my dick, judging by how rough and scratchy they are against my skin. I swear they feel like cardboard.
I open my eyes, staring up at the popcorn ceiling, or more like the water stain that looks like it’s been building for a while.
“How long’s your ceiling been leaking?” I call out.
A moment later, a man—whose name I can not for the life of me remember right now—appears in the doorway.
He’s a good-looking guy; but of course he is. I have good taste in men, at least when it comes to their appearances.
The insides, however?
