His eyebrows lifted. "Inga?—"
"What gives you the right?" I hissed, too loud, too wild, too raw. "You think you can just barge into my life? Into my home? Overpower little boys? Force your way into our space like you own it?"
His jaw tightened. "I didn't?—"
"And then—then—you give us things we could never have otherwise. You think I don't know what that means? What men like you want?" My voice cracked, and I hated it, hated that he made me feel fragile. "Tell me what the price is, Captain."
"Inga—"
"No!" I nearly shouted. "Say it. What do you want? Because I'll tell you right now—flyboy—I'll never sleep with you. I'll never have sex with you. So whatever game you're playing—stop it."
He stared at me as if I'd slapped him.
Then his voice came out strangled. "You think I did all that so you'd have sex with me?"
"What else would you want?" I hissed. "What else do men ever want?"
His eyes flashed. First, there was hurt, then anger, then something hotter. "Has it ever occurred to you," he asked, in a low and lethal voice, "that someone might just do something kind because theycare?"
My heart slammed against my ribs. Care? Nobody cared. That was the point. Understanding that was how you survived.
I shook my head violently. "Nobody does anything for free. Not now. Not here."
His anger sharpened. "Maybe where you stand."
"Yes. Here. In this city."
"Inga," he growled, "not the entire world is built on tit for tat."
"Mine is." I snapped.
He reached through the gate. Before I could step back, his hand closed around my waist, not harsh, not painful, but firm, drawing me close until the cold iron bars pressed between us, until our noses nearly touched. My hand moved instinctively up, my palm rested on his chest, and for a brief moment, I thought his skin under the shirt felt funny. Like scales… he must have had something in his pocket. My breath hitched. He smelled like cold wind and engine oil and something warm beneath it, something that made my knees give.
"Captain!" a GI barked from somewhere behind him.
He ignored it.
My pulse thundered.
I wanted him to kiss me—God, I wanted it—if only so I could hate him for it.
No, I was lying. I wanted him to kiss me because I wanted him.
I hated that more.
"If that is what you think of me," he said quietly, "you don't know me at all."
He let me go. The loss of his heat felt like a slap.
"Exactly," I hissed, forcing my voice steady. "I don't. And I don't want to."
He clenched his jaw. "You're impossible."
"Leave us alone!" I shouted, turning away before he could see the tears gathering. Then I walked off.
Fast. Too fast. Hoping he wouldn't follow. Dreading that he might not.
He didn't.
