Angry.
She looks furious. Jaw tight, lips pressed together, nostrils flared.
But under that, in those deep brown eyes, there’s something else.
Fear.
Fuck.
I hate it.
I hate that I can tell now. Hate that I can see every crack in her armor like it’s been wired into me.
“Fine,” she bites out finally.
I hold her for a second longer, just to make sure.
Then I let go.
She scrambles up first, dusting off her jeans with shaky hands, chin up like that will erase the fact she just busted out of my trunk and tried to slit my throat.
I get to my feet more slowly, watching her. Measuring the distance between us. Measuring the distance from the back door to the street.
If she runs, I’ll catch her.
I jerk my chin toward the rear entrance of Exile.
“Walk,” I say.
She glares at me, but her feet move.
Smart girl.
I fall in step just behind her shoulder, close enough that if she stumbles, I’ll feel it. Close enough that anyone watching from the shadows will think twice.
The bass from the club grows louder as we approach the door. I punch in the code, metal clicking, and push it open.
She hesitates for half a heartbeat on the threshold.
Then Ayla steps into my world, and I follow her in. The club’s bass pulses through the walls, vibrating up through my boots. My hand finds the small of her back, her body trembles slightly. I direct her up the stairs and down a hall to my office. I punch the code and open the door.
“In,” I clip.
She walks in I follow her and slam the door behind us.
She spins on me immediately, eyes blazing. “You put me in the fucking trunk.”
“You ran,” I snap back. “What did you think would happen?”
“I went to see my friends—”
“Without permission.”
Her jaw drops. “Permission? Are you fucking serious right now?”
I step closer, forcing her back until her spine hits my desk. “You’re mine, Ayla. That means I know where you are. That means you don’t disappear into some shithole warehouse in the middle of the night.”
“They’re my friends!”
