Exposed Exposed (Dom Nation #1) - E. Davies Page 0,8
was around. I didn’t like having my back to him, and I didn’t laugh at his jokes like most of the others. Even Seb liked him, even Brighton.
Nobody had a bad word to say about him. And that was the craziest reason ever not to like someone, right?
Just like I couldn’t explain how I felt about Isaac, I couldn’t explain how I’d come to know whose name Slate was about to say, except that I’d briefly jumped a few seconds into the future.
Slate looked up at me, slow and careful, like he wasn’t sure if he should run, and time caught up with itself again.
“Isaac.”
The lack of surprise on my face—the deliberately sympathetic, unsurprised pinch I allowed in my lips—brought comfort to him. He breathed easier again, like saying the name had helped.
I hoped it had.
Isaac has to be stopped. All my focus shifted to that thought, burning through me like justice’s own scales had been placed in my heart.
I didn’t let go of his hand, but I rose to my feet.
“Where are you going?” Slate didn’t flinch at the sudden movement, but he stared at me. Expectant, seeking, and truly clueless.
“To find Isaac,” I said softly, cold and certain. I let the cruelty I’d left behind in those early days bleed back into my voice. “And fix this. And you’re coming with me.”
Slate yelped and dropped my hand, recoiling into the seat like lava had flowed into my skin, crackling with molten glory. “What? No, I can’t!”
Oh, boys. They never knew their own limits. It brought a slight smile to my lips. It was job security for us Daddies, but it never failed to surprise me.
He’d had the strength to leave, to come find me, to spill his troubles. How much harder could it be to fix things?
“Yes, you can,” I told him, keeping my hand outstretched. “You need backup, that’s all. I’m here.”
For you, I mentally added.
How odd it was that just minutes after meeting this man, I recognized the ebbs and flows of his energy like I’d been born to it. Not just because I knew what boys needed, but somehow, I knew what Slate needed.
“But…” I could see Slate talking himself out of it. The furrows of his brow, the fear in his eyes, it was all written plain as day on his face. He was searching for an excuse.
Patiently, I waited. He’d earned a little patience, after what he’d been through.
“You can’t leave your shop,” Slate finally said. After he spoke, he sat up, resolute. He even nodded slightly.
What a precious, silly boy. Like such a tiny detail would stop me.
I grinned, showing my teeth like a wolf who’d smelled blood. “Watch me.” I turned and strode for the counter, grabbing a paper menu and a Sharpie from next to the register.
I flipped over the menu and wrote.
Back soon. Lick a dick while you wait.
Then I leaned so far over the register I almost cracked a rib, but my fingertips grazed the tape dispenser. I tore off a piece, strode to the glass door, and slapped the sign on it.
“There.”
I turned to find that Slate had risen to his feet.
His hands were cupped and locked together the way our hands had been moments ago, but hovering in front of his chest. He twisted them together, dragging his fingertips along his palms and relocking them the other way.
God, he was beyond beautiful in his aching uncertainty, wavering on the edge of obedience to me.
In a flash, I could see it: hands over his head, straining toward me, voice breaking with pleas and passion. The tears I wanted to make fall from those pale eyes were utterly unlike the lost, numb tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes right now.
“Come,” I said, holding out a hand, prepared to wait for him to make up his mind and decide that I could be trusted.
I didn’t have to wait. He came. He didn’t take my hand, but by God, he came, and I’d never counted myself luckier.
Instead, he stayed a pace behind me, like he was keeping me between himself and the doorway. I could understand that, and I might have even taken a guilty moment of pleasure in it.
I was Slate’s protector, his avenging archangel, and I was…
“Not dressed to get in tonight, I see. You—you’re back. You’re fine, Mr. Exhibitionist.”
There was always an edge of rivalry in Tony’s voice, and hearing his tone soften as he spoke to Slate made it starker than ever.