He chuckles and shakes his head. “Still gotta be a little shit.”
I glare at him, then turn over, but instead of pulling away I push in closer and grab one of his stupid arms, draping it across me.
Just because I’m his boy, bastard better not think I’m suddenly going to start listening. You know, be nice and shit.
And this Mac fuck better not look at what’s mine, or I’ll cut off his dick and make him choke on it.
Chapter 11
Two days pass and we haven’t made it all that far. Neither of us are moving very fast. I still feel like shit. My head and eyes hurt most of the day. Why’s the sun gotta be so fucking bright?
Rex is still coughing a lot, but not as feverish.
“You better be in that bed.”
I grunt, rolling my eyes. I killed two fucking Carrionites, and the bastard is treating me like I’m some fragile ceramic teacup. “What are you gonna do if I’m not?”
His footsteps stomp toward the bedroom of the small ranger station we came across. It’s only midday, but he insisted we stop and rest.
When he appears in the doorway, a full-on scowl covering his face, I smirk.
“Boy, don’t try me right now.”
The pain in my body isn’t as sharp anymore—more of a deep ache. Everywhere. I don’t mind it but hate that my head’s still fucked up.
Rex says it’s a bad concussion. Which means, not only is he treating me like some precious snowflake, but he won’t touch me either.
And I want his touch.
“You’re not in any better shape, old man.”
He shakes his head and throws something at me. “Found those. Protein bars. Should still be okay to eat.”
I pick one off the bed, reading the label. Chocolate peanut butter. I look up at him. “Not hungry right now.”
With a growl, he stalks to the bed. “Why can’t you fuckin’ listen?”
“Thought you liked me all mutinous. Isn’t that what you said?”
He rubs his hands across his face. “Fuck my life.”
“Fine, I’ll eat.” My eyes narrow, remembering what I said all those months ago. “Then we have sex.”
“No.”
“Then I’m not eating.”
“Devon.”
“Rex.”
He throws up his hands, relenting. Probably because he’s sick and because I’m injured. No way he’d let me get away with this shit if we were both healthy.
But I don’t put it past the bastard to be keeping a mental log for punishing me later.
I open the wrapper and eat some of the bar. Too sweet and gooey. I wash whatever’s stuck in my mouth down with water.
He starts rubbing the tattoo again with his thumb. Don’t think he knows he’s been doing it a lot the past couple of days. “Told you ’bout my father. What’s bothering you?”
