Something was wrong.
He wasn’t buying it.
His jaw flexed, eyes dark yet also fever-bright.
“Do you think I’m an idiot?”
“Of course, I don’t—”
“You think I don’t know what is going on right under my nose?”
Dread flickered.
“You’ve got customers lining up for your attention all night,” he said, voice tightening with each word. “And now you’re sneaking off to finish the job elsewhere?”
The accusation slammed into me.
Ugly.
Charged.
Yet not wholly unexpected.
But I spoke too fast.
I didn’t think.
“That’s ridiculous.”
I knew it instantly.
That was the wrong move.
The wrong words.
My heartbeat stumbled.
His grip grew even more punishing.
“You lying little whore.”
The word cracked the air between us.
My breath hitched.
Not at the insult. At the venom. At the naked fury vibrating under his skin.
It was his usual jealousy, yes. But it was something else too. Something feral. Unhinged.
I shifted tactics.
My voice softened, grew cloyingly sweet.
“Hey…” I said, giving his hand a squeeze, then sliding up his arm slightly. Placating. An intimacy I never would have initiated otherwise.
It was the choreography of survival.
I just hoped to hell I knew the steps.
