A chorus of gasps detonates. I make a noise only bats can hear. Slade’s grin widens, wicked and triumphant. I elbow him sharply. “Stop it!”
“I thought I was making things easier,” he murmurs with faux innocence.
“You’re making things worse!”
Mrs. Alderberry fans herself. “Oh my.”
Slade leans down, voice brushing my ear. “You’re welcome.”
I glare at him with the force of a thousand collapsing stars. He just smiles. The fuckingbastard.
I don’t think. I grab Slade’s wrist—hot, solid, arrogant—and yank him behind the counter. “Back room. NOW.”
A few customers gasp. Someone whispers, “Oh my…”
Slade, of course, looks positively delighted. I march him through the beaded curtain, slam the door behind us, and whirl on him, ready to unleash holy hell—He’s already leaning againsta shelf. Arms crossed. Smirk sinful enough to get us both arrested. “You wanted privacy?” he asks.
“I wanted to yell at you.”
“You can do that in private too.”
Gods. Give me strength. I poke him in the chest. Hard. “What. The fuck. Was that?”
He cocks his head. “The truth.”
“You told them you were mine.”
“Should I clarify?” He leans forward. “Should I specify in what ways?”
My face bursts into flames. “STOP. Talking.”
His voice drops. “Make me.”
Oh no. NOsir.
Slade steps off the shelf, closing the distance in a single predatory stride. Then he cages me against the door. Again. “But I told you—” he murmurs, “I go where you go.”
I shove his chest. He doesn’t budge. He moves like a mountain—like he’s letting me push him for his amusement. “Slade,” I warn, “your behavior is—unwelcomed.”
“Liar.”
My mouth falls open. “You can’t just say liar whenever you want!”
“I can when it’s accurate.”
I growl.—actually growl. He laughs. His hand slides to my waist—slow, warm, claiming. My brain automatically short-circuits. “Don’t touch me,” I whisper.
He leans in, breath warm against my jaw. “I think you like when I do.”
“I don’t.” It’s a lie, we both know it.
“You tremble when I do,” he counters.
“That’s the curse!”
“Is it?” he asks softly. “Or is it me?”
My pulse stutters. Something crackles overhead. The lights flicker. The shelves rattle faintly. A jar of moon-bloom salt hops an inch like it’s trying to escape the tension.
