He hadn’t liked being locked out, being distrusted. But even in his anger, he hadn’t hurt her. What he’d done was worse—he’d taken her, branded her, driven himself into every cell of her body. She couldn’t survive a month of this, of becoming further and further intertwined with a man who could never be hers. The thought of ending up an empty, broken shell like her mother was a nightmare… but even worse was the thought of losing Fox, of never again inhaling his scent, hearing his voice, feeling his touch.

“Room service.”

 Jumping at the knock on the door, she glanced at Fox where he lay on her bed.

Jaw clenched, he went into his room and closed the door while the waiter dropped off the food. His dark expression had grown heavier by the time he walked back in, his jeans low on his hips and his upper half bare. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to know he was angry about the continued secrecy of their relationship, but he kept his silence as the two of them ate the food while sprawled in bed.

Molly picked at a plate of fruit, then set it aside on the bedside table, not really in the mood to eat. “How did that woman get past security?” she asked, knowing she was revealing too much of what she felt for him but unable to stop herself.

“How groupies always get past security.” Fox shrugged and continued to eat his burger, but his voice held an edge that said his temper was still simmering. “Don’t waste any more time on her. She’s nothing.”

Molly winced, wondering if that was how he’d think of her once their month was past. Then she wanted to slap herself. “I’m really not cut out to be a rock star’s g—” She caught herself before she said “girlfriend,” the word a knot of painful emotion in her throat. “Lover.”

“Since I can still feel you hot and wet around my cock, I disagree.” With that forthright statement, Fox finished off his burger, then picked up the beer he’d had her order and half-emptied the bottle before suddenly frowning. “You mind if I drink?” he asked, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear. “I never asked.”

The tenderness shattered her. He remained angry, that much was clear, but still he thought about her. Cuddling close, she laid her head against his shoulder and felt the tension in her spine ease when he wrapped his arm around her without hesitation, his fingers closing over her nape.

“No,” she said in response to his question. “It’s my choice, doesn’t have anything to do with anyone else.” The golden silk of his skin an invitation to her senses, she stroked his side, petted his chest. It felt so right to just be with him. “Each time I turn down a drink, I remember why I made this choice and who I am. Does that make sense?”

Fox brushed his lips over the top of her hair. “Perfect sense. Was your mom a drinker or was she just drunk the day she got behind the wheel?” he asked, and she knew then that he’d read through articles not only about her father’s fall from grace but also about what followed.

Molly could remember every detail of that fateful hour when she’d lost what little remained of her world: the fine yellow paper of the note calling her to the school counselor’s office, the echoes created by the soles of her school shoes in the otherwise empty corridors, the Wet Floor sign where the custodian had wiped it clean of a spill, the kind face and sad eyes of the veteran cop who’d told her both her parents were dead. It was as defining a moment in her life as the day she’d watched televised images of her father being arrested.

“My mom was a high-functioning alcoholic for most of the last eight years of her life… then she was just an alcoholic,” she said through the agony of memory. “But,” she added, eyes gritty and throat dry, “from the things I picked up over the years, I know she began drinking years before, when she learned of my father’s first affair.”

Fox lifted his hand from her nape to run his fingers lightly over the side of her face. “Bastard has a lot to answer for.”

About to respond that her mother held half the responsibility for choosing to stay with Patrick Buchanan despite knowing what he was, Molly’s heart suddenly hiccupped, a wave of ice crawling over her skin. What was she doing speaking to Fox about things that made her feel as if she were that beaten, broken girl again? She knew how dangerous this was, how far she’d already fallen, how bad it was going to hurt when it ended.

She’d bleed the day Fox walked out of her life.

“The concert,” she said in a stumbling rush of words, “it was amazing. I’ve never experienced anything like that.”

It was about as subtle an effort to change the subject as a sledgehammer, but Fox let her retreat, maybe because he, too, didn’t want to go that deep. “Yeah? It’s a rush, isn’t it? I love performing, especially when the crowd is that pumped.”

Heart rate smoothing out as the ice eased its grip, she traced her fingertips over the ridges of his abdomen. “That teenager you let onto the stage to jam with you—he was so excited, I think he’s probably not going to sleep for a month.”

 “Me, Noah, Abe, and David, we were all that kid once.” Bracing one arm on a raised knee, he said, “You really had a good time?”

Surprised at the note of hesitation, she pushed up so she could look into those gorgeous eyes, his lashes lush and thick. “Yes! It was my first rock concert and I think I’m addicted.” Fox’s slow grin was the reward for her honesty. “The energy, the primal power of it, and most of all the music… my God, Fox, you four make the most incredible music.” It pulsed in her veins even now, compelling and haunting.

“In the end,” Fox said, “it’s about the music. That’s why we’ve stuck together—the money, the fame, it’s peripheral. All the four of us ever wanted to do was make music.”

Filching one of his fries when he put the little basket on his lap, she crunched it. “I was talking to Maxwell and he said you guys stuck through everything.”

Fox nodded. “We’ve had a couple of really bad patches. Right back at the start, when we were young and stupid and didn’t know how to handle the pressure, and a year ago, when Abe’s divorce had him trying to drug himself into an early grave.” He fed her another fry despite her scowl. “Your mad face is cute.”

“You could get murdered for saying stuff like that,” she muttered, charmed regardless.

His dimple flashed at her, and she was expecting the way he drew her down for a lazy kiss. Her palm flat on his chest, she sank into the pleasure, her earlier fear tangled with a poignant tenderness that urged her to continue being brave, continue hoarding the memories. Because now that she was thinking rationally again, she knew she wasn’t her mother, would never be her mother—as tonight’s fight had shown.

Karen Webster had never screamed at her husband. No, she’d been the perfectly coiffed and poised political wife, drowning her pain in alcohol.

If Fox actually had slept with that groupie, Molly would’ve slammed the door in his face. She had enough respect for herself to never allow any man, even one who was her personal addiction, to treat her in such a way. It would’ve brutalized her, but she would’ve eventually picked up the broken pieces of herself. What she would’ve never done was crawl into a bottle, just as now she wouldn’t scurry back into the claustrophobic box in which she’d existed for so long.

Molly was going to live.

Even if it smashed her heart to splinters.

They ended up sleeping in till noon, which wasn’t surprising given the late night. Molly woke to find herself tucked into Fox’s body, her breasts pressed to his chest. One muscular, tattooed arm was locked around her waist while the other lay under her neck, his thigh—heavy with muscle and dusted with hair that rasped deliciously against her skin—thrust between her own. Yawning, she snuggled deeper and just wallowed in the feeling of warm safety, the emotional storm of the previous night having left her raw.