“I’m just asking.”
“And we’re answering,” Sting replies. “Not our problem.”
“That easy for you?”
“Yes.”
Rogue tilts his head. “You’re pushing again.”
“I’m persistent.”
“You’re gonna get yourself hurt.”
“Funny,” I say. “You all seem real concerned about that.”
Sting steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I feel his heat. “This isn’t about concern,” he says. “This is about you not knowing where the lines are.”
“Then draw them.”
“You don’t get to keep pulling at things outside your place.”
“There it is,” I snap. “My place.”
“Yes,” he says. “Your place.”
Anger flares hot. “You decide my place,” I say. “You decide my future. And now you get to decide what I’m allowed to ask about my own father?”
Rogue’s amusement fades.
“That’s enough,” Sting says.
“Or what?” I challenge.
The food court is loud. People talking. Laughing. But I feel like everything narrows around us.
Sting grabs my arm. Firm. Not painful. But final. He pulls me sideways into one of the narrow service passageways that cut between storefronts. The noise drops instantly. Concrete walls close in. Lights buzz overhead. I barely have time to breathe before he presses me back against the wall. Hard. His body brackets mine. One hand planted beside my head. The other gripping my hip.
“Don’t do that,” he growls.
“Do what?” I snap.
“Push us in public.”
“Why not? Afraid someone will see?” I taunt.
“Afraid someone will think you’re something you’re not ready to be.”
Heat slams through me. Before I can respond, he slips his mask up and his mouth crashes down on mine. Not gentle. Not slow. Hungry. Claiming.
My breath leaves me in a sharp gasp. For half a second, I resist. Then my hands grab his shirt to pull him closer. The kiss deepens.
His grip tightens at my hip, my body fitting hard against his. I feel every line of him. Every inch.
Someone clears their throat.
I don’t pull away. I don’t want to.
Rogue’s voice drifts in from the corridor entrance. “Told you she liked attention.”
