“You had some idiot grabbing you behind a bar.”
“That was handled.”
“By luck.”
“By my fist.”
His eyes flashed. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying.”
“And you’re not hearing what I’m saying.”
The tension in the kitchen snapped tight, and Hawk stepped closer. So I stepped closer too, matching his intensity.
“You don’t get to decide when I walk away from something,” he said.
“I absolutely do.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I jabbed a finger into his chest. “I am not yours.”
His body went rigid, and a deep sound rumbled in his chest—almost a growl.
His hand wrapped around my wrist and pulled me forward until I collided with him. “You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
His face was inches from mine. “You think I want to want you?”
“Then don’t.”
His grip tightened. “That’s not how this works.”
“Well, it should.”
His jaw clenched. “I’ve been running a club for ten years.”
“Congratulations. Do you want a trophy?”
“No one talks to me the way you do.”
“Maybe someone should.”
“You’re pushing your luck.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
He leaned in closer, our faces almost touching. “So stubborn.”
“So bossy.”
“So damn loud.”
“Then leave.”
His eyes burned into mine. “Not until I know you’re safe.”
