I stare at him, not quite understanding. “Go?”
“Yes. We’re leaving this shithole now.” His frown deepens when he looks around the place. “Seriously,thisis where you live?” He pins me with one look. One that strips me bare and makes me want to throw something at him.
“There’s nothing wrong with my place.”
“Everythingis wrong with it.And,we’re deep in the roughest end of the city. The bad part of the bad part of town.”
“Say whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere with you.” This is outrageous. And this man is impossible.
“Yes, you are. Remember the contract?”
“Where did it say I have to go off with you in the middle of the night on a whim’s notice?”
“Page eight, clause fifty, subsection 4.1.1.—Personal Availability.” He recites it like scripture. “The Contracted Party agrees to maintain reasonable availability for public and private appearances as requested by the Principal—a.k.a. me—including but not limited to social events, business functions, and matters of personal discretion. The Contracted Party shall respond promptly to any summons or communication issued by the Principal or his authorized representatives, irrespectiveof time or location, unless prevented by verified medical emergency or prior written exemption.”
Holy shit.
He actually memorized the damn thing. Is this how it’s going to be? Every time I breathe wrong, he’ll throw a clause in my face?
What should I do? I don’t want to leave now or go with him.
“I’ll sort my stuff out tomorrow and?—”
“No.”
I step back, shaking my head. “This is ridiculous and entirely unreasonable.”
“No, it’s not.”
“I need time.”
His jaw flexes, eyes cutting through me like frost. “If you’d answered the phone, you would have had time. Now you won’t encroach on mine.”
Damn it. I’m losing this battle.Badly. “I have to pack my things. And my… art.”
My eyes flick to the canvas, and so do his. For a second, something shifts. Surprise flickers in his expression, genuine and unguarded.
When his gaze returns to me, it’s changed. He looks at me the way people do when they’ve underestimated me and realize they were wrong. But he doesn’t say a word about the painting.
The hardness returns to his eyes, and his jaw clenches. “We’re leaving now, Isla, whether you’re ready or not.”
“I need to pack my things.”
“My people can pack those for you.”
“Come back tomorrow.”
He hisses at me. I take a step back, and he moves, too.
“Knox.”
“Isla.”
“You need to go home.” I keep walking backward, because I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Or walking toward me.Fast.
One second, he’s across the room; the next, he’s in front of me. My pulse stutters as I sense what’s coming next.
I spin toward the hallway, planning to bolt for my bedroom, but his arm hooks around my waist before I make it two steps.
