He got down on his knees. “Because I interrupted your fight? I apologize. I think you were going to win, by the way—but I’m not a gambling male. Sorry.”

She opened her mouth to say something else … but it was lights-out.

Her last thought?

That as something warm enveloped her palm, she was pretty sure he had taken her hand.

Chapter Forty-five

When Craeg had materialized on Paradise’s lawn, he hadn’t been sure whether he’d come to fight with her or make up with her.

He honestly hadn’t known. Could have gone either way.

After she had handed him his own ass over the phone, he had stormed around the training center until he’d decided, Fuck it, he was going to see her in person. He’d called for a doggen, gotten into the bus, and then as soon as they’d made it out to the main road, he’d told the guy he wasn’t waiting for the drop-off point.

They’d negotiated to a clearing five miles away from the compound.

Then off he’d gone, to the lawn of Paradise’s family’s mansion.

Where he’d found the front door cracked open.

The second he’d walked in, he’d seen Paradise under Anslam, with her thumbs digging out his eyes.

And that was how he’d ended up sitting here in this … amazing library … with proverbial blood on his hands.

Looking around, he shook his head at the grand oil painting over the fireplace. The male who was depicted was staring straight out at the viewer, and Craeg could only imagine what the good ol’ boy would have had to say if he’d actually been able to see a scrub-ass commoner sitting on his silk sofa. Or his son’s silk sofa. Or grandson’s. Whatever.

“Fuck,” he muttered as he rubbed his face.

Yeah, actually, he had come over to fight with her, not make up with her. He’d come to prove his point: that she and her people were an evil in the species, and she was deluded if she thought he was going to buy any of her bullshit—

“Just stop,” he groaned.

Reopening his eyes, he stared at the rug that his boots were planted on. Out in the foyer there were voices. Butch had come. V. And the butler and the maid were talking.

Paradise had been taken upstairs, and Doc Jane was—

A male appeared in the doorway of the library.

He was tall and slender, dressed in an impeccable suit that even Craeg could tell was handmade by a master. With his bright white shirt and his bloodred tie and his smart little handkerchief in his breast pocket, he was the epitome of an aristocrat.

And yup, he even had the gold signet ring on his finger.

And yes, those were Paradise’s eyes staring across the still room.

Craeg took his Orange cap off as he stood up. He had an absurd impulse to retuck his shirt, or brush off his jeans … or something. Shit.

The male strode forward with a formidable expression on his face.

Bracing himself, Craeg cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m—”

The bear hug that hit him was so strong he felt his bones get crushed, and the guy didn’t back off, he just kept holding on.

While Craeg stood there like a statue.

Over Paradise’s father’s shoulder, Butch stuck his head into the room. Making bug eyes, the Brother motioned for Craeg to get with the program.

Behind the male’s back, Craeg put his palms up, all “what do I do?”

Butch started to madly make hugging motions.

Wincing, Craeg gingerly put his arms around the gentlemale. Patted those shoulders.

“I owe you my life,” her father said in a rough voice. “On this night you have given me life anew by saving hers.”

Finally, her father stepped back and he whipped that handkerchief out and wiped his red eyes. “Tell me, how may I repay you? What may I do for you? How may I e’er be of service unto you and yours.”

Craeg blinked like a planker. His brain literally flatlined. And then he blurted, “My name is Craeg.”

Like the guy had asked him or something.

“Craeg, I am Abalone.” The male bowed. “At your service.”

Before Craeg could respond to that, Peyton rounded the corner and marched over to him. “My man.”

Annnnnnnnd it was time for hug number two.

As Peyton gave him a squeeze that nearly broke his ribs again, Craeg was a little more with the program on the whole return thing.

“You did my job for me,” the guy said roughly.

“What are you taking about?”

“Butch told me Anslam was the one who killed my cousin.”

Craeg recoiled—which was a good thing because he needed a little personal space. Ever since the danger had dissipated when he killed a goddamn classmate, he’d felt like he’d stepped into a parallel universe.

The thing was, as he’d run Anslam through like the fucker had been nothing but an animal, he’d been reacting in defense of Paradise. The reason the male had been attacking her hadn’t been overly relevant at the time—and had remained unquestioned in the trippy aftermath.

Peyton told the story quickly, and Craeg followed most of it. At least, he thought he did.

Anslam and the Polaroids. Anslam and his reputation for being aggressive with females. Paradise putting it all togther.

Abruptly, Peyton turned to Paradise’s father and the two embraced.

“So how about this guy,” Peyton said as the pair of them separated. “He’s some kind of hero, huh.”

Okay, right, it was entirely uncomfortable to have Paradise’s father look at him with something close to hero worship. Yeah, wow—could he leave now? Maybe he could leave … he wanted to go see Paradise, but—