CHAPTER FIVE

"This doesn't feel right." I hear Amara's voice from the foyer of our penthouse.

She shouldn't have been here. Carter shouldn't have either.

It's too early. I'm still in my suit. Still reek of blood.

Except there's no remnants of Preston on me. Nothing but lacerations and some swelling on my knuckles. Easily explained. I hit the punching bag at the gym without gloves.

I should tell them I'm here.

My voyeuristic side disagrees.

Carter and Amara can't see me yet, and I use it to my advantage. I cross the open space of the first floor from the living room to the kitchen to get myself another glass of whiskey. Listen in on them.

"I told you it's okay," Carter says in a gentle tone he saves for Amara and her alone. "Don't worry, pet."

She groans. They're not moving, and I continue to eavesdrop.

"We should've at least given him a heads-up, muffin."

Anyone else calling him that nickname would've turned me murderous. Me and Carter alike.

Murphy would attest to that.

"Hey, kid." He approached Carter one day. A redhead, asshole politician from DC that came to do his dirty business in our hotel.

A man who thought he could call Carter by anything other than his name.

Carter and I were on our way to our private elevators that'd lead us to the parking garage.

Needless to say, we came to a screeching halt.

By then, Carter was nineteen. He knew he had my approval to deal with people who didn't respect him however the fuck he wished.

"What did you call me, Murphy?" Carter stalked toward the man, towering over him.

Even from his profile, I could tell his smile was wide.

It wasn't an invitation. It was a threat Murphy had the brains to see.

He stammered, "I-I just meant, I mean, umm—"

"Yes?" I watched Carter flip open his pocket knife behind his back. "You meant?"

"Carter, please, I meant nothing by it." Sweat dripped into Murphy's green eyes. "It makes sense, doesn't it? I have known you since you were about this tall." The trembling Murphy gestured to his waist level.

Apparently, he wasn't as bright as I thought.

"This tall?" Carter shoved the blade of his knife to Murphy's waist.

Murphy screamed, grabbing his bleeding abdomen.

"Thought so." Carter bent to stare dead in the man's eyes. "Not a fucking kid. I'm one of the owners. You better keep that in mind."

I smile at the memory. Then curse under my breath, since I hate lying to myself.

Truth is, no one's been allowed to give Carter a nickname because until Amara came along, Carter had been mine.

For the first twenty-two years of his life, he was my stepson. Then, he'd been mine to fantasize about. His lips belonged around my cock. His body belonged in my bed. At least these are the thoughts I have on a daily basis.

No stepfather who raised a boy on his own should want to spoon him. Naked.

And yet I have. Still do. Which makes me a million times more possessive of him.

Now, though, I have to share him. She gets to call him whatever.

He's hers, despite how much I wish for a different ending.

That fucking does it.

This wallowing is beneath me.

"Give me a heads-up? And why is that?" I fill my tumbler a second time tonight and turn to watch them entering the kitchen.

He has his arms around Amara's middle, pressing her back to his chest. They're walking toward the kitchen island and stop when her stomach hits the granite counter. Then his arms bracket her against the counter.

"Hey, Killian, you're up." A slow smile spreads on Carter's face.

Their presence turns this upscale penthouse into a home.

Their presence awakens things in me. The way Carter's hovering over her. How her round, brown eyes seek my approval.

They look perfect for each other. A twenty-two and a twenty-five-year-old. Two young people who'll never be interested in adding a man who's almost forty-three to their duo. They shouldn't.

"Killian?" Carter has his lips on Amara's shoulder, eyeing me.

Both of them do. Standing there as if I hadn't seen her naked and bent over this very island.

A second later, any and all thoughts of sex are wiped off my mind.

Because of Amara's temple. Fuck, how could I have missed this?

The offensive lump is a bright shade of red. The frozen green peas pack in her hand drips on the floor, and she raises it hesitantly to her head.

Rage is the fuel that sets fire to my blood. Burning through my veins. Making me fucking lose it.

I slam the tumbler on the counter behind me and charge toward her.

Preston is a distant memory. My jealousy and sick desires are a thing of the past.

She's hurt.

This wasn't an accident. The bump is too big, too prominent to be caused by walking into a cupboard or some shit.

Someone touched her.

Not Carter, that's for damn sure. The only women my stepson hurts are those who break Voltage's rules. We don't go easy on anyone.

That's it. No one else.

Meaning someone hit Amara. That someone's going to pay for this.

Her curious eyes widen in fear as I stalk toward her. Carter says nothing. The bond he and I have built over the years is thicker than blood. He gets what's going through my head.

He knows better than to step between me and her. Between me and finding out what happened.

Even if my feelings aren't reciprocated, I'll murder someone for her.

"Amara," I say, my voice hoarse, laced with rage.

Carter steps away from her.

I flick my gaze at him—a quick silent thank you.

Then I turn to her.

I tower over the young woman, casting a shadow over her small frame. She doesn't cower at the rage emanating from my every pore. Doesn't flinch or reek of fear like that loser, Preston. Jasmine and sex waft to my nose, and her wide eyes turn almost dreamy.

Nothing about me scares her. Though I should. Both Carter and I should instill the fear of God in her heart.

With one arm wrapped around her back and my free hand gripping her chin, I tilt her head up to me.

The ice pack drops to the floor, making a squelching sound.

Let it melt at my feet. See if I give a damn.

"Who did this to you?"

This is the first time I've been this close to her. The first I've felt her sweet breath fluttering on my lips.

I'm hard and vengeful. Fucking explosive.

When I look harder into her eyes, into her soul, I find arousal and determination there.

It's inappropriate. Wrong. Morally decadent.

Except I enjoy it.

Preston could learn a thing or two from her. In another lifetime. In this one, he's never going anywhere near her.

She's ours.

Carter's. She's Carter's.

Fuck.

Carter. My stepson, who I love. Who's watching our interaction. He doesn't interfere. Doesn't beat my ass for touching her the way I do.

He doesn't, but it doesn't mean it's okay. I have to restrain myself.

And I can't. I'm stalling, looking for other wounds. Looking at her. There's this heavy energy surrounding Amara. Dark and alluring. It's like I'm hypnotized.

Her eyelids flutter in slow motion and a blush creeps up her neck to her cheeks.

"Who?" I demand.

"Someone broke into my apartment," she finally says.

That explains it. She was attacked. She's confused. She's not aroused.

With this in mind, I step back, putting a lousy three-foot distance between us. My eyes don't leave her, though. I'm possessive now that I've had her in my arms. I look at her as if she belongs to me.

She doesn't.

That little fact should be an ice bucket to the flames inside me. Not that easy when I have the motherfucking bruise in my line of sight.

"Where's that someone?" I grip the kitchen island with one hand when all I want to do is sink my fingers into her hair.

Her gaze flickers from me to Carter at her side. Her sensuous lips curl into a mischievous smirk.

Dammit, it suits her. She's fucking adorable.

And crazy for smiling after someone broke into her apartment and hit her.

Perfectly, wonderfully crazy.

"Carter took care of him." There's no mistaking the pride in her voice. The puffing of her chest. Her admiration for my stepson. "Beat him up and sent him packing. I was knocked out the entire time. Although… I wish I hadn't been."

"No one's going to lay a hand on you again, Amara." I dip my chin, leveling her with a meaningful glare.

"No one," Carter adds.

My attention cuts to him. His gray eyes speak volumes in the deafening silence of the penthouse.

He approves of me treating her like she's ours.

They say more. They say he doesn't know why that guy was there.

As discreet as this couple is, our members aren't stupid. They were bound to catch Amara's heated gazes at the boy who owns her heart. Bound to see his teeth grind whenever anyone gets close to her.

His lips curve in a vicious smirk. His final silent message to me.

Carter didn't send the burglar packing. The insolent piece of shit who hurt Amara is undoubtedly on his last drive around the city. Inside the trunk of Shawn and Lance's car.

He hasn't shared any of it with her. I nod in understanding.

"You're doing the eye conversation trick." Amara's long, blond hair whips with her head as she twists it from Carter to me. "Again."

She's not mad as most people would. She doesn't feel left out. I swear she's amused.

Her quirked eyebrow says as much.

The twinkling of her eyes is a balm to my anger. Sucks out the fury I can barely contain.

My shoulders relax; the thin line my lips made smooths out. Carter's arm snakes around her, the corner of his lips hiking.

The little witch has this effect on us.

"Checking on Carter, that's all," I reassure her, placing a hand over his shoulder. "He said he's fine."

Instead of a friendly short slap, I let my palm linger. Carter's muscles strain beneath my palm and his head tilts in a challenge. We're no strangers to these heated face-offs.

We've been having them for months now.

The air crackles whenever I touch Carter. The heat cranks up in the penthouse when either of us walks shirtless around the house.

I've been convincing myself that I'm imagining things.

I probably am.

In the corner of my eye, I see Amara reaching her hand to Carter's waist. She coughs, pinching him.

"Oh, right." Carter pulls her tighter to his side. "Amara is moving in."

"Carter!" she shrieks.

"What, pet?" He twists to her, and my hand falls off his shoulder. He's not mine. "You asked me to tell him. So there I am. Telling him."

Her eyebrows knit, her lips pursed. Her cheeks are redder than the bump on her head.

"I asked you to ask him."

"There's no need—"

She ignores him, spinning to me, twirling a long blond lock of hair around her finger in a nervous gesture. "Mr. Murdock—"

"I think we're past formalities, don't you?" My hand twitches. I need to stroke her hair, to silence her worries. It stays firm by my side. "It's Killian."

"I—"

"She's not safe in her apartment," Carter interrupts, his voice stern. "She's moving in with us. For the foreseeable future."

"No, no." Amara waves her hands in the air. "I'm not."

My nostrils flare. She's not going to turn back and leave.

She's ours.

His.

"Killian, I…" she stutters. Just like she does when I stare her down over dinner.

I can't be blamed if she chooses to prance in short, sheer, pink crop tops around the apartment. Around a man whose dark desires have been eating him alive.

"You're staying." The pads of my fingers trail along her cheek, and she leans slightly into me. "End of discussion."

Carter watches this new interaction, still saying nothing. He's not big on sharing. Maybe he's okay with it because I'm—basically—his father. He assumes I'd never look at Amara as anything more than his girlfriend or touch her inappropriately.

And I won't.

I'm touching her to comfort her. That. Is. That.

"However long it takes, Amara." I move back, respectful of my stepson. "Our home is yours."

"You sure?"

"Amara." Carter kisses her forehead, avoiding the swollen bump. "He would never say it unless he meant it."

"This was a bad idea, I'll—"

"You're not going anywhere. You're staying right here, where Carter or I will always be able to look out for you, beautiful girl." I spin around in the direction of the stairwell leading to my floor. "Good night."

I have to get away. No more pheromones, testosterone, or sex for tonight. Or for the remainder of her stay here.

No more calling her beautiful girl, like I absolutely shouldn't.

None of it.

None.

Of.

It.