I snap. I fucking snap. One more light turns red ahead of us—red, then green, then yellow, then red again—before we even reach it, and I lose what fragile grip I had on my sanity. “I’m gonna jump out!” I shriek, hand flying to the door handle.
Damian doesn’t even flinch. He presses a button, a quietclickechoing through the car as the doors lock, and I gasp—scandalized, betrayed, embarrassingly horny all at once. “You asshole,” I breathe, half accusation, half awe.
His voice stays calm and low, the same one he uses before faceoffs and executions, steady enough to make my spine go tight. “What do you want to be, pup?”
I glare at him without hesitation. “Your brat,” I snap, the words coming out fast and loud like the answer should’ve been obvious—because it is, because I’m clearly doing a phenomenal job proving it.
He lifts an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Try again.”
I blink as my brain short-circuits, watching another light ahead turn green while we still haven’t even reached the last one. “…your center?” I try, my voice tipping uncertainly upward as my hands twitch uselessly in my lap.
“You’re already my center.”
Well. Shit. I fidget, sweat, then try again, glancing at him sideways like I already know I’m playing with fire. “Your… slut?”
That finally earns me a look—a very specific, very dangerous one—that makes my toes curl and my lungs forget how to work. “Okay, okay,” I mumble, shrinking into the seat. “Your… husband?”
Damian’s lips twitch. His hands are still perfectly calm on the wheel, “I can’t hear you, pup,” he says smoothly, all tease.
Bastard.
I clench my fists, huff like a dying star and scream into my palms. “FINE!” I yell, arms flailing, my whole body vibrating with indignation. “I WANNA BE YOUR HUSBAND!”
Damian hums, the barest nod, still calm.
I lean harder into the seatbelt, fuming and boiling over, until the words rip out of me all at once—“YOUR HUSBAND!”—louder this time, nose wrinkled and eyes wide like I’m about to combust. “Your lifetime contract,” I keep going, breathless and wild, “your permanent line mate!”
Nothing. “YOUR FULL-TIME PUKE TARGET—WHATEVER!”
He doesn’t blink.
I glare at the windshield, then whip my head toward him. “YOUR STICK BUNNY!” Still nothing. “YOUR RING BITCH!”
Damian’s mouth twitches.
“YOUR PERSONAL HOCKEY WIFE!” I scream, hands in the air. “I WANNA HAVE YOUR BABIES!”
Damian snorts—an actual, audible snort—real laughter forcing its way through that stone-cold face, and I light up instantly, beaming as I gasp, “Oh my God. You laughed. You laughed.”
He shakes his head, lips twitching like he’s trying to suppress it, voice dry when he finally answers, “That’s not biologically possible, pup.”
“Yet,” I purr, wiggling in my seat. “Don’t underestimate me. Medical science is evolving.”
Damian exhales slow. “You’re unhinged.”
“You love it.”
He doesn’t answer, because I saw it and I heard it—the snort of death, the Captain Crack—and that’s how I know I win. Even if I get spanked later so hard I can’t walk straight, I. Fucking. Win.
I wait until he’s distracted, somewhere between “you’re unhinged” and “you’re not having my babies.” He’s driving now, finally, finally going faster than a tortoise with asthma. So I inch my hand across the console. Just a little. Just enough to graze the edge of his jacket. Because I know it’s there—something—small and square, tucked into that pocket, something I felt earlier when I tackled him at home like a love-drunk maniac, and now it’s all I can think about. Now I need to know. So I go for it, two fingers light as a whisper as they dip into the edge of his jacket pocket, like I’m not about to risk my entire life for a mystery box.
“Put your hands in my pockets again, pup, and I’ll edge you for a week.” Damian’s voice is dark. A growl straight from hell, stitched with heat and threat and certainty.
I freeze. Absolutely freeze. My eyes go wide like I’ve been caught defiling the Holy Grail. I yank my hand back to my lap so fast you’d think it got bitten. I clutch it, cradle it, mourn its poor decision-making. “…okay,” I whisper. “We respect the pockets. We respect boundaries.”
Damian doesn’t look at me. But I feel his satisfaction roll off him in waves. “Good,” he says, all smug and dangerous. And then he floors it. The car roars. My seat jolts. My bones rattle. We go from casual cruise to warp speed in a heartbeat.
I scream—not from fear, but from pure whiplash—as the words tear out of me in one sharp, breathless burst. “What the hell—!”
