Or at least, that’s what she thought he said. It kind of sounded like “Lwibekew ksb icbe ls owbd bakd ow.” Because, hello, her hearing had gone on the fritz.
Oh, and if those were the words he’d spoken? Well, then she had a few things she’d like to order, none of which were going to be helpful in this situation, and all of which had him taking his leathers and whatever underwear he had on down to the floor.
Commando? she wondered. Dear. God.
“I was thinking pizza.” Liar, liar, drop those pants on the fire—that was not even close to what she was thinking about. “What do you like on it?”
And P.S., she now had a pretty damn good idea of how men felt when a woman wore a low-cut blouse. It was taking nearly an act of Congress to keep her stare at his collarbones.
“Whatever you like,” he said—and re-shut the door.
Jo blinked as she faced off at a whole lot of fake wood paneling. “Sounds good.”
On the other side of the bathroom door, Syn turned around and leaned back against the fragile barrier between him and his female. After a moment, he sensed her moving away, and then, over the falling water of the shower, his keen ears picked out her dialing her phone and ordering something that had pepperoni on it. Closing his eyes, he told himself he needed to leave her in peace, but it was an internal argument he’d already lost the second he had gotten into her car.
For the first time in his life, he did not want to be alone.
Actually, it was worse than that.
He specifically wanted to be with Jo.
He wanted to tell her that he’d just jumped the Omega in a back alley, even though she didn’t know who that was or why that kind of reckless shit was a bad idea. And he wanted to tell her that the people he lived with were going to think he was a hero for saving Butch’s life, even though she had no frame of reference for the Black Dagger Brotherhood or the Dhestroyer prophecy, and even though that altruistic crap had not been his motive for his attack. And he really wanted to confess that he killed people to regulate his emotions, not because he had a monster in him, but because he was a monster himself.
Just like his father.
And yup, all of this winning personality and character of his? He’d brought it and a bag of chips right through this poor female’s door. In the middle of an impending personal crisis for her that she had no idea was coming.
He was such a fucking hero, wasn’t he.
With hard pulls, he shucked his leathers off his legs and then he put himself under the blistering hot water. The nerves in his skin immediately flared with agony, and he had to bite his lower lip to keep from cursing at the pain. But he wanted the punishment. He had earned it.
For never being the hero.
Syn used whatever soap she had, running the bar all over his body and his hair and his face. After he rinsed off, he stood there under the slicing heat to make extra sure he was clean, and then he cut the boiling spray and stepped over the lip of her plastic tub. Using one of the two towels that hung on the rod by the toilet, he wanted to tell her she should burn the thing after he was done.
He felt as if he was contaminating her entire living space with his mere presence.
When there was nothing left to dry off, he stared down through the lazy, swirling mist at the pool of black leather and moisture-wicking nylon formed by his discarded clothes. He did not want to put them back on his soaped-and-rinsed skin. Not while he was under her roof. The set had been worn when he had slaughtered lessers who had deserved his killing, as well as a number of humans who had begged for mercy that hadn’t come unto them. His togs were bloodstained, sweat-soaked, and carrying the residue of gunpowder and death.
And yet she spoke of cologne.
Humans clearly had inferior noses—
The shriek outside the bathroom was high-pitched and could only have come from Jo.
Syn grabbed the gun that he had put within reach on her counter, ripped open the door, and jumped out with the muzzle up and his finger on the trigger.