“They set us up.”
“Yeah,” I say. “No shit.”
“Whoever it was, whoever’s feeding intel to my enemies, they’re going to fucking regret it.”
I glance at him, the storm building behind his eyes.
He’s already planning.
Already picturing the kill.
And for the first time, I’m not entirely sure it’s all the bastards at the docks he’s imagining bleeding.
It might be whichever one hurtme.
Or maybe he doesn’t know the difference anymore.
He finishes bandaging my arm and drops the bloodied gauze into the trash like it personally offended him.
“You’re staying here tonight,” he says.
I blink. “What? No.”
“You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
I scoff. “You going to cuff me again?”
He steps closer,
“I don’t need to.”
And somehow, that’s worse.
Because he’s right. I’m too exhausted, too weak to move.
“Fine,” I mutter, gritting through the pain. “I’ll stay.”
But the second the word leaves my mouth, I hate how weak it sounds. Hate the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. Like he’swonsomething.
Nico leans in, eyes scanning my face like he’s waiting for me to take it back. I don’t. I just hold his stare and grit my teeth harder.
“Say it again,” he murmurs.
I scowl. “What?”
“Say it like you mean it.”
He brushes his thumb along the bandage he just wrapped around my shoulder, slow and possessive. “Tell me you’ll stay.”
My jaw clenches.
The fuck is this, some twisted victory lap?
I should shove him. Should bite back. Should spit in his face just to see what he does.
But I don’t.
Because part of me—some fucked up, splintered part—wants to give it to him. Wants him toownit. Ownme.
