THREE
Savage sat up in bed, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping the sweat away. Another fucking nightmare. He couldn’t close his eyes. He hadn’t for a long while and he needed sleep. Desperately. If he didn’t get sleep soon, he was going to explode, and anything in his path would be annihilated. He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. That was how much sleep he’d managed before the nightmare woke him—again.
He threw back the sheet, the only thing draped over him, because sometimes he’d get twisted up in his nightmare world and come up fighting. That was never good, considering he slept with weapons close to his hand at all times—except he wasn’t sleeping.
It took only a few minutes to take his third shower that night. The first two had been in hopes the hot water would get him to sleep. The third was for her. Seychelle. He’d held out for nearly a week. He had this itch he couldn’t get rid of. He wished it were in his cock, but it wasn’t. He rubbed his chest.
He didn’t want to give in. She was coming to their bar on Thursday . . . that was the damn problem. He wasn’t certain she would come, and he was probably the reason she wouldn’t. She knew if she did, he wasn’t going to let her go. It didn’t matter, because he was going to her. He didn’t want to. His seeking her out would let her know she had the upper hand. She was the one woman in the world who could actually make him feel like a real man and not the walking dead.
He pulled on his jeans, boots and a tee, stretching it across the heavy muscles of his chest. His vest was next. Then he was gone. The sound of his bike was loud, rivaling the boom of the ocean as the waves hit the cliff and sea stacks to throw white, foaming spray high into the air. The fresh air held salty mist, hitting his face and clearing his head. Being on his bike and riding the ribbon of coastal highway always helped rid him of the worst of his ever-present pent-up rage—at least for a little while, until something triggered it again.
It only took a few minutes to get from Caspar to Sea Haven. He drove through the narrow streets until he came to the small cottage at the end of a dead-end road. The headlands stretched out on the other side of the street, forming the cliffs directly above the ocean. From the vantage point of the cottage, she had an excellent view of the stormy waves.
Savage backed his bike into her drive, right up to the small garage. He sat for a moment, listening to the pounding sea. It was angry tonight, matching his mood. He scanned the neighborhood. The little house was a distance from any other homes, with a field stretching between her cottage and the closest neighbor. No dogs barked. No one was moving.
He prowled around her house. Easy break-in. The front door had a shit lock. The back door was unlocked. He looked up at the heavens for a moment, wondering what the hell he was going to do to her for forgetting to lock that door. There was no alarm and the windows had no locks. One was open. Peering in, he could see the bed with Seychelle curled up in it, facing away from him. He sighed. Anyone could break in. A kid could do it.
He caught the window ledge and slid into the room easily. He was a big man, but it was a good-sized window with no covering. He wanted to shake her. Instead, he sank down on the edge of the bed and leaned down to take off his boots. He heard a gasp, and she sat up, throwing a punch at his head. He ducked it easily.
“Knock it off. You deserve to have the crap scared out of you. This place is an invitation to perverts and serial killers.”
Seychelle scooted to the headboard, pulling the sheet up to her chin. “Which are you?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. She looked outraged. She also looked as if she might burst out laughing at any moment. Her damn dimple was very much in evidence. He concentrated on taking off his remaining boot. “I’m a pervert, of course.” He thought about it. “I might be considered a serial killer by some people. I don’t know. No one’s put that label on me yet.”
He shrugged out of his colors and folded them neatly, putting them on the end table. She had little girly things on it, none expensive. Nothing in the house really was, with the exception of an amazing blown-glass sculpture of two roses intertwined together. Both red, the stems dark green, winding their way lazily up toward the layers of soft petals, the entire sculpture nearly sparkling brightly with color from within. The two flowers were permanently set in a crystal blown-glass vase that sat on a small round base of moving colors. It was beautiful. Stunning even.
Two intertwining hand-blown crystal roses? Who had given her that? Some other lover? He didn’t like the idea, but he was careful not to knock it off the edge when he pulled his T-shirt off with one hand and put it on top of his colors. The damn sculpture was the centerpiece of the room, and clearly it was the one thing she treasured.