Not that I'm telling her that shit.
"Because I don't trust anyone else to do it right," I say instead. "Some things I handle myself."
"What do you mean? Guard me, or protect me?"
"Both."
"There's a difference?"
I set down my fork and really look at her. "Guarding you means keeping you locked up until this is over. Protecting you means keeping you safe while making sure you don't lose your fucking mind in the process."
"And which one are you doing?"
"I'm trying to protect you."
"Why?"
The question hangs in the air between us. Why am I trying to protect her instead of locking her in a room and throwing away the key?
"Because you're not what I expected," I say finally.
"I'm afraid to ask what that is, but go ahead."
"Spoiled brat. Daddy's little princess who'd cry and scream and make my life hell until I could hand her back. Instead, you're down in my gym at seven in the morning, looking at me like..." I stop myself before I say words I can't take back.
"What?"
"Like you're not afraid of me."
"I told you I wasn't."
"Yeah, well, you should be."
"Why? Because you're big and scary and dangerous?" She leans forward, and I catch a hint of her shampoo, something light and sweet that doesn't match the fire in her eyes. "Or because you want me and you think that makes you weak?"
The directness of the question catches me off guard. No games, no bullshit, just straight to the fucking point.
"Both," I admit.
"I don't think wanting someone makes you weak."
"You would if you understood what wanting the wrong person can cost you."
"What did it cost you?"
I think about the scar on my ribs, about the bitch who put it there when I trusted her with information I shouldn't have shared. About the six months of physical therapy andthe lesson learned too fucking late about mixing business with pleasure.
"Everything," I say simply.
"But I'm not her."
"No, you're worse."
"How?"
"Because she was a dumb mistake when I was young. You'd be fucking treason."
The word hangs between us.
