Or something.
“You started street boxing in your spare time?” I ask. My thumb scrapes over a cut; she jerks but doesn’t pull away.
“Let go.”
“That a yes or a no?”
“It’s a go fuck yourself.”
I drag her closer by the captured wrist until her body clips my chest. Her breath ghosts my throat. Her eyes tip up, green and burning.
“Tell me who hit you,” I say, low. “Or I’m going to walk out that door, find your husband, and break every finger he uses to sign a check.”
Her lips part, surprise ghosting across her face before she kills it.
“You think Parker did this.”
“Who else.”
She snorts. “That’s cute.”
“Not answering is an answer.”
“I’m not a fucking savior.”
“Finally, something we agree on.”
We stare each other down. Her pulse trips under my fingers. Mine’s worse. Heat runs up my arm, the urge to yank her in and smash my mouth on hers riding shotgun with the urge to put someone in the ground.
She yanks her arm, tries to break my hold. I tighten it. She hisses.
“Last warning, Asher.”
“You’ll what,” I say. “Bite me?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
“Who. Hit. You.”
Her nostrils flare. Then she breathes out hard, voice flat.
“A guy tried to take my bag, all right? I wasn’t looking. Dark street, wrong corner. He got a hit in, I got it back, end of story. I fell on my ribs. Happy now?”
Every word is a lie.
“That’s the story you’re going with?” I say.
“The truth’s so boring, I know. I should’ve said it was a Russian spy or a cartel hitman, right? Really get your dick hard.”
My brow lifts. I'm impressed. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m fucking hilarious; you’re just rusty.”
She wrenches hard. I let go before I actually bruise her worse.
Her arm drops to her side. She rubs her wrist and glares at me.
“You don’t get to show up after disappearing and interrogate me about my face like you’ve earned that right,” she snaps. “You’re a guest in this house, remember? My husband’s guest. You want to alpha around, go do it in your own glass tower.”
