“I see you, little bird.”
She jumped, much as I expected her to.
I wasn’t sure where the endearment came from, but to be fair, my options were either a bird or a mouse, both of which she resembled in nature, and I didn’t think any woman would appreciate being likened to a rodent.
A sky rodent? Sure. They had wings. That was much cooler than mice who shit and pissed in your hand if you held them.
Okay, I had issues with mice. Issues with most animals to be honest, so, little bird it was. I couldn’t exactly hate on birds when I was named after one.
“Of course, you can see me,” Amara whispered huskily. “I am visible.”
I wondered if she forgot that sometimes.
Couldn’t blame her if she did.
“You’re very visible,” I said, “but I meant you can’t sneak around when my eyes are on you.”
An interesting flush kicked up around her cheeks, one that made her pretty face that much prettier.
In all honesty, she was beautiful. A little wrecked, a lot broken, but somehow, all the more beautiful for it. Which was fucked up, I knew that, but I didn’t have a say in how I responded to her, did I?
The porcelain doll look had never been my thing. I tended to go for stacked bitches, all hips and ass. Give me a chick who could twerk while she was riding my dick, and I was as happy as a fucking clam.
Amara, on the other hand, was only just starting to gain some much needed weight after being starved.
Starved to death. Left to die. Sold into slavery. The rape doll of the rich.
Four descriptions. Each described her, but I knew none defined her.
Even if she didn’t yet.
Pursing my lips at her, I murmured, “I saw you last night too.”
Her bright brown eyes flared wide in surprise. “What?”
“I saw you last night too,” I repeated easily. “Nyx’ll kill you if he catches you spying on them again.”
She swallowed. “You told him?”
I snorted. “No.”
The tension around her mouth and in her shoulders lessened some. “Thank you.”
I’d known she was hot for Giulia, my baby sister, but spying on them while they fucked was the opposite of cool. In fact, it was creepy as hell.
My twin, North, always did say that I liked the freaks. Not that he could judge. The fucker.
With my feet kicked up on the railing instead of the coffee table right in front of me, I peered over into the distance. There were the faint noises of construction work going on, but that was to be expected. The compound had been destroyed and the Satan’s Sinners’ MC were having to rebuild it. That was why we were here, at the MC’s lawyer’s home, just a stone’s throw away from where the clubhouse used to stand.
It meant I was looking onto a sea of lawn, some flowerbeds, an herb garden of all fucking things, and my ass was in a comfortable porch swing, one of those fancy schmancy ones that probably cost more than I earned in three months.
For all that this place was like a palace by comparison to the clubhouse, I’d prefer to look onto a sea of bikes, but that wasn’t an option right now.
My gaze drifted wide as I waited for Amara to make a decision. Maybe she was more of a mouse than a bird, because I knew I’d just laid a trail of crumbs that I was hoping would lead her into taking a seat beside me.
She wasn’t skin and bone like she’d been when she’d arrived at the compound all those months ago, and what there was of her was covered in an oversized sweater and jeans, but she had a delicacy about her that made me want to protect her.
As well as shove an extra-large burger down her throat.
She reminded me of a skinny Mila Kunis, which was really saying something because Mila Kunis, my spankbank material of choice, was the opposite of plump, but in comparison to Amara, she was.
Big almond-shaped eyes peered out onto the world like every avenue heralded danger, those plump lips of hers were always tightly pursed with a bitterness she couldn’t hide. Her cheeks were gaunt, but they exposed cheekbones that belonged in front of a camera. Her hair had, once upon a time, been brittle and dull, but now it was starting to get glossy and thick. She had it slicked back, tight to her head with gel, which kind of reminded me of how a ballerina wore theirs, only without the bun.
The thought triggered something in my head, something that was confirmed as Amara took my trail of crumbs, nibbled on them, and sat at my side on the porch swing. As she did so, she crossed her legs, and her foot, instead of just swinging free, extended. The arch was high, her toes pointed, and all her calf muscles, even beneath the skinny jeans, became delineated.
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