She glares at me, andmerda, I want to kiss that defiant look right off her face. I want to show her what she's agreed to.
Soon. Not yet, but soon.
"Let's go," I say, and I open the door.
She walks past me into the hallway, and I follow, pulling the door closed behind us. She doesn't look back at her apartment. She doesn't say goodbye. She just walks down the stairs with her head high and her spine straight, like she's going to war.
In a way, I suppose she is.
My SUV is parked at the curb. I open the passenger door and she hesitates for just a moment before climbing in. I closethe door behind her, walk around to the driver's side, and slide behind the wheel.
She's already buckled in, her purse clutched in her lap, staring straight ahead.
I start the engine and pull into traffic, heading toward Tribeca. Toward home. Toward the beginning of our real life together.
We drive in silence for several blocks. I can feel the tension radiating off her. The fear. The fury. The arousal she doesn't want to acknowledge.
"I should have called the police months ago," she says finally, her voice quiet. "When you came into the ER. I should have reported the gunshot wound."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why not?"
She turns to look at me, and in the passing streetlights, I can see tears on her cheeks. Tears she won't let fall. Tears she's fighting with everything she has.
"I don't know," she whispers.
She's lying. She knows.
I reach over and take her hand. She stiffens but doesn't pull away. I thread my fingers through hers and rest our joined hands on the console between us. Possessive. Claiming.
"Yes, you do," I say softly. "You knew then. The same way you know now."
"Know what?"
I squeeze her hand. Not gentle. Hard enough to remind her who's in control.
"That you belong to me. That you've always belonged to me. That everything else is just you pretending otherwise."
She doesn't answer. She doesn't pull her hand away. She just sits there with tears streaming down her face, staring out the window as I drive us home.
To my home. Our home now.
Whether she likes it or not.
The rest of the drive passes in silence. When we reach Tribeca, I pull into the private garage beneath my building. The engine ticks as it cools. She still hasn't pulled her hand away.
"Last chance," I say, even though we both know there is no chance. "You can walk in on your own feet, or I can carry you. Your choice."
She looks down at our joined hands. At the way her smaller hand fits perfectly in mine. Like it was made to be there.
"I hate you," she says quietly.
"No, you don't." I bring our joined hands to my mouth and kiss her knuckles. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."
"I should."
