“You need anything?” he asks.
I want to say I need my life back. Peace. Therapy. A lock that cannot be picked by a man who thinks my body is his property.
Instead my mouth betrays me and I say the only thing my heart can handle.
“Disco?”
Magic’s voice carries from the hallway, warm and steady like he is trying to soften the edge of it. “Bird’s good. He’s in Vice’s truck with the AC. Your cockatoo’s been cussing us out in Spanish.”
Vice mutters something under his breath like a reluctant confession. “That bird called me cabrón.”
A cracked sound slips out of me that might be a laugh if my throat was not trying to close. Relief hits so hard my vision blurs.
“Of course he did,” I whisper.
“Loud little demon,” Magic says, like he is almost proud. “Keeps yelling, ‘Dale’ every time somebody walks by.”
My chest aches with it. With the stupid love I feel for a bird that thinks he is ten feet tall. With the fact that he is alive.
“Thank you,” I say, and my throat hurts around the words.
Diablo’s eyes flick to my mouth like he wants to touch the corner where I bit it, but he does not. He keeps his hands to himself like he is terrified I will flinch.
That fact hits me harder than the bruise.
Rico never worried about me flinching. Rico loved it.
Diablo’s control is different. It is not gentleness.
It is restraint with teeth.
“You’re staying with me,” he says.
It is not a question. Not a suggestion. It lands like a command with a hand around its throat.
I blink, pulse spiking. “Diablo.”
His gaze does not move, like he nailed himself in place. “You’re staying with me.”
My throat goes dry. “You don’t get to,” I start, because I have to say it, because if I do not then I am already sliding back into old patterns where men decide and I survive.
“Don’t,” he cuts in, voice low and dangerous. “Not today.”
Anger flares hot and bright even through the exhaustion. “You don’t get to make decisions for me.”
His eyes flare, and then he forces them softer like he is physically dragging himself back from the edge. He breathes out through his nose like he is counting, like he knows his temper is a loaded gun.
“I’m not doing this to control you,” he says, each word heavy. “I’m doing this because your home isn’t safe. Rico was working for my enemies. It’s club business, but you need to know something, white roses aren’t Carmen. They’re the Miami Mutherfukers MC’s calling card. They’d love to run the Saints Outlaws out of Miami. They’re the ones we’ve always suspected in Rafael’s death.”
“White rose isn’t her. It’s Mutherfukers. A calling card?”
“A rival MC,” he explains.
“So, you don’t think Carmen is working with them?” I ask.
“Hard to tell. She’s a bitch, but she loved her father. I used to think she loved this club. But none of that matters. You matter, Darling. To me. I’m not letting you end up in a body bag because you wanted to prove something.”
My chest tightens anyway, the old reflex. “Stop acting like you’re my savior,” I snap. “You’re engaged.”
