“They were staring.”
“So?”
His voice dropped slightly. “Didn’t like it.”
Heat curled low in my belly again.
“You don’t own me.”
His eyes slid to mine.
“No,” he agreed calmly. “But they don’t get to look at you like that.”
The possessiveness in his tone sent a shiver through me.
The train arrived, and we boarded, bodies pressing close in the crowded car. Kane shifted automatically, boxing me into the corner so no one bumped me.
His chest brushed my shoulder every time the train lurched.
His hand remained at my waist, steadying.
Each accidental touch felt deliberate.
Slow burn.
By the time we emerged near Étienne’s address—a quiet residential street—I felt wound tight with awareness.
We slowed near the building entrance.
“Ready?” Kane asked quietly.
I nodded.
Just as we stepped toward the door, a man exiting the building slammed into me, shoulder clipping mine hard enough to knock me off balance.
Everything happened fast.
Kane’s arm shot out, catching me before I fell.
His other hand caught the man by the jacket, shoving him back against the wall.
Hard.
The man blinked in shock.
“Watch where you’re going,” Kane said softly.
Dangerously softly.
The guy stammered something in French, hands up defensively.
I touched Kane’s arm. “It’s fine.”
His grip stayed tight another second before he released him.
The man hurried away.
My heart pounded.
