“You should,” he says.
I stop and spin on my heels so fast the streetlight catches my face. “You don’t get to tell me what to do.”
I started to walk toward theMidnight Wytch, which was only a block away, and I could feel him close on my heels.
By the time we stepped into the shop, I’d already made up my mind. Jameson’s orders or not, I wasn’t about to give Hellsing the satisfaction of thinking I needed him. My bag was packedand waiting by the counter, and the second he walked in, the look on his face said he knew I was about to make this difficult.
“Got your bag ready, huh?” His voice came out rough, half a growl, half amusement. “Guess I should be flattered you finally decided to listen.”
“The fuck I am. I’m going home.”
“Thefuckyou are,” he stated with the same tenacity that I’d used to phrase my previous statement.
I crossed my arms. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
“Oh, sweetheart, everything with you is hard,” he muttered, snatching the bag off the floor.
“We’re heading out now,” he ordered.
I huffed, folding my arms tighter as he stomped outside. I followed quietly and watched him curse under his breath while tying the bag to the back of his bike. His muscles strained under that damn cut, and I could tell every one of his movements was sharp with irritation.
When he came back, his expression said he’d run out of patience. “You done poutin’, or you need another five minutes to pretend you’re in charge?”
“Go to hell,” I snapped.
“Already been there, darlin’,” he said, grabbing me by the waist before I could protest.
I hit his chest with both hands, but he barely flinched. “Let go of me!”
“Not a chance.” His voice dropped, it was low and dangerous, but not cruel. Then he lifted me clean off the ground and set me on the bike…hard.
I gasped. “Asshole.”
He leaned close enough for me to feel his breath at my ear. “Keep callin’ me names, and I’ll make sure to chain you down onthis seat and make this ride as uncomfortable as I can for you. Sit still.”
I glared daggers at him, but my body stayed put. He climbed in front of me, started the engine, and the roar shook through my chest. The sound was deep, wild, and familiar, the kind of noise that made you feel alive even when everything else was falling apart.
“Hold on,” he said.
“I’d rather fall off.”
“Then you’ll fall with me.” He revved the engine once before pulling out onto the road.
The ride to his place near the cemetery was a blur of wind and frustration. I couldn’t tell if I was angry at him or at the fact that part of me liked being there, pressed close to his back, feeling his heartbeat through his jacket, the steady rhythm grounding me against my will.
When we finally pulled into the gravel drive, I jumped off before the bike even stopped rolling. He barely got the kickstand down before I was storming toward the door.
“Jesus Christ, woman,” he barked, slamming the door behind us. “You ever stop movin’ long enough to listen?”
“Maybe if you stopped barking orders like some kind of wannabe dictator, I would!”
He threw my bag onto the floor, jaw tight, eyes cutting toward me. “You’re under my roof now. You’ll do as I say.”
“Over my dead body.”
“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll make sure you sleep outside with the ghosts,” he shot back.
I marched past him, shoving the door to the guest room so hard it rattled the frame. “Drop dead, Hellsing!”
