“Let go,” I say, more air than sound. My jaw aches, but I will not flinch. “You don’t get to—”
He cuts me off with a slight shake of his head, fingers tightening the barest fraction.
“You’re not going back to the hell hole you crawled out of. You stay with me.”
My skin prickles.
“Then I want to go with you,” I challenge. “You go, I go.”
His hand drops and he takes a step back.
“What?”
He chuckles, something resembling light catching his eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest, his tongue gliding across his top teeth. “You want to go to my meeting?”
I nod.
He arches a brow. “With my men?”
I shrug. I don’t give a fuck where we go, but I’m not staying here. He’snottrapping me.
“You go. I go,” I repeat.
His eyes narrow, calculating. I can see the wheels turning—weighing risk against whatever fucked-up logic governs his decisions.
“Fine,” he says finally.
I blink. “Fine?”
“You want to come? You come.” He moves past me toward the closet, yanking open another drawer. “But there are rules.”
Of course there are.
He pulls out a leather jacket puts it on then grabs another—smaller than his, and tosses it onto the bed. Then he reaches into the back of the closet and retrieves something wrapped in black cloth.
My breath catches when he unfolds the cloth.
A gun.
He checks the magazine, then holds it out to me.
“Here.”
I stare at the weapon. “You’re trusting me with a gun?”
His mouth curves slightly. “You’re not going to shoot me Beda, and if you did…” he shrugs, “You’d dig the bullet out anyway.”
I take the gun carefully, feeling the weight settle into my palm. It’s heavier than my own.
“Rule one,” he says, stepping closer. “You stay within my line of sight at all times.”
I nod.
“Rule two: You don’t speak unless I tell you to.”
My jaw tightens, but I nod again.
“Rule three:” His hand comes up, fingers brushing my cheek in a gesture that’s almost tender. “If someone tries to touch you, you shoot them. No warning. No hesitation.”
