Maybe my plan was rooted in a fairytale but that was the thing when you were running on desperation and revenge…pretty much all logic and reason flew out the window.

I just wanted to hurt Davonte and the only way to hurt that man was to target the source of his happiness.

Money.

The sound of my shower reminded me that I’d offered to feed that hulking beast.

I deliberately shoved any thought of a naked Damon from my mind. I didn’t need that kind of imagery if I was going to keep things straight in my head.

My pelvis still tingled faintly from the pleasure he’d given me. I squeezed my thighs together, gripping the counter top for strength as another gentle wave rippled through me.

Good God.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d touched myself before — I wasn’t a nun— but doing it to yourself and having someone do it to you was completely different.

Every nerve was alive, tingling.

And I was kinda tired.

I mean, like sated.

Honestly, I would’ve loved to be able to curl up on the sofa and catch a few ‘zzzz’s.

But we didn’t have time for that.

And I’d promised to make Damon something to eat.

How domestic.

If he’d just been open to listening in the first place, I could’ve done this at his place.

I spent $40 on groceries that were rotting on his kitchen floor.

I pulled out some eggs, cheese and turkey meat from the fridge. It was the best that I could do. If he didn't like it, he could starve.

I made quick work of throwing an omelet together just in time for Damon to enter the room, still drying his head with a towel.

Bare-chested, barefoot, wearing only his jeans…Goddamn.

He wasn’t my type, right?

I just had to keep reminding myself that but as the spit dried in my mouth, I struggled with the words I was trying to say with any sort of conviction.

“Really? Why can't you put some clothes on? This isn’t a strip show and I’m not going to shove a dollar in your pants just because you have a six, um, eight pack.”

But my annoyance wasn't purely directed toward him.

Why did my stomach have to react like butterflies were jumping on trampolines?

That irritating tingle in the pit of my belly was not welcome.

Not only was an attraction to Damon completely inappropriate, it was downright stupid.

Damon McAvoy wasn't the kind of man you settled down with.

Hell, Damon McAvoy wasn't the man you shared a cab ride with.

But, again, desperation created strange bedfellows so they say.

I pushed the plate toward him and crossed my arms. “I'm not running a restaurant.”

“Looks good to me.” He grabbed the plate and started to wolf down what I prepared. Within seconds it was a memory.

“That all you got?” he asked, rising to go poke through my cupboards.

He probably had the metabolism of a hummingbird. All those muscles required major protein to maintain.

“Look, I'm not here to feed you. We're here to find a plan. You said you were hungry. I have given you something to put in your stomach. Let's move on.”

He grunted as if he'd half listened, found a box of crackers, and started munching before saying, “We can't stay here. Davonte knows where you live and he's gonna come here sooner or later.”

“Well, if he thinks you're chasing me then I think we have a little bit of time to figure things out.”

Damon nodded as if that made sense but added, “Still not gonna do much good if anyone sees us running around. If I'm supposed to be chasing, I can't be having breakfast with you.”

“So where do you suppose we go? We sure as hell can't go to your place either.”

“That's the truth.”

He glanced around the small bungalow.

“Not a bad place.”

“My father inherited it from my grandparents.”

“Where’s your Pops now?”

“Who cares?”

“Oh, so it’s like that?”

“My dad is a gambler and a drunk. Chances are he’s face down in a bar or an alley somewhere, sleeping off a bender. He was real disappointed when I told him I wasn’t going to be Davonte’s newest whore.”

Damon accepted my answer, his gaze still roving my small house, stopping to rest here and there on the few photos I had scattered about the house in some semblance of appearing normal.

I loved my little house not because it was beautiful or cute or quaint or anything like that but because it harbored the best memories of my life, thanks to my grandparents.

To me, the house was more sentimental than anything else. But let’s get real, it wasn’t winning any Home and Garden awards anytime soon.

“Did you grow up in Detroit?” I ventured, curious in spite of my own objections.

“Born and raised.”

“So, how'd you get into fighting?”

He shrugged. “The way most guys do. Not a lot of options, school wasn't my thing and I was pretty good at punching people.”

“Do you like punching people?”

“Sometimes.”

“Did you enjoy punching Davonte?”

He paused for a long moment. Maybe he wasn’t going to answer. Damon surprised me with a small grin, admitting, “Yeah, I did. Felt good.”

Well, at least that was something. “I’m jealous.”

Damon filled a glass with water, chugged it down and then took a seat on the sofa. “All right, so what's this big plan of yours?”

If he felt a hint of the awkwardness that I did after being so intimate, he didn’t show it. I tried to follow his lead by staying on track, giving my mind something to focus on.

“You know that Davonte keeps his women scattered throughout the neighborhoods. I say we find one of the women he's discarded and see if she wants to help bring him down. Men are notorious for sharing details they shouldn’t after they’ve gotten laid.”

“How would you know, Little Miss Virgin?”

Oh, why’d he have to say that? Damon knowing my personal business just felt wrong.

I blushed but narrowed my gaze. “Because I’m observant. And it’s just human nature. Besides, I haven’t been living under a rock, you know.”

Damon looked impressed for a brief second but it cleared within seconds as he leaned forward, pinning me with his stare.

“You want me to chase after a bunch of pissed off women in the hopes that one of them will want to screw over Davonte as much as you?”

He shook his head as if I were stupid and he found that disappointing. “Woman, you're not very good at this strategy shit.”

“Who are you to judge? I hardly think your plan to drink yourself to death is much to write home about.”

“I wasn’t drinking myself to death,” he grumbled. “I was…feeling sorry for myself. There’s a difference.”

“Not from where I’m standing.” Frustration laced my tone. I wasn’t going to argue about pointless things. “All right, fine. I don’t hear you coming up with anything that’s more bulletproof. What’s your plan? Run? You know Davonte will catch us eventually, no matter where we go. It might be a year, it could be five years, but I don't want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, do you?”

“Of course not. But the reality is I don't put a lot of faith in the hopes that we’re going to find someone who is willing to fuck over Davonte just for the sake of fucking him over. You’re the first chick I’ve ever met who was willing to go against the man. Everyone else kisses his ass. And I guarantee you that if we went to any of the women that he's pushed away they would do anything to get back in his good graces, which includes ratting us out.”

Damon made a certain amount of sense. Still, like I said, I wasn't trafficking in logic and reason right now. I wanted blood and I wanted it now. I didn't care if I died as long as I died taking a piece of Davonte with me.

“Well, I'm going to try,” I said stubbornly. “You never know unless you put yourself out there. There has to be someone who hates Davonte as much as I do. I just need to be careful about how I go about asking.”

“Is it the red hair?” he asked, surprising me with the quick zag. When I blinked in confusion, he clarified, gesturing. “Is it the red hair that makes you stubborn as shit?”

“Maybe.” I lifted my chin. “Or maybe I just don’t like being bullied and pushed around by a total narcissistic asshole who thinks he’s God.”

“I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but around here…Davonte is the closest thing to it and there’s no one who’s going to sign on for a suicide mission. Our best bet is to get the fuck outta Dodge, quick.”

I wasn’t going anywhere until I took a piece of Davonte with me. Damon took one look at my mutinous expression and swore under his breath.

“You’re fucking crazy,” he muttered, casting his frustration my way. “And you’re gonna end up in a ditch somewhere if you don’t pull your head outta your ass.”

“If you’re scared, you can walk. Take your chances on your own, I don’t give a shit. But I have my plan and I’m going for it.”

Damon didn’t know me but he would learn real fast. I didn't quit and I didn't give up. Not even when the odds were against me.

Hell, maybe it was stupid.

But I would rather die for something worthwhile than live for nothing at all.