That one lands differently.
Because for all his control, that one is not jealousy.
I shift my weight and nod once.
“Fine, don’t want to talk to him anyway.”
He keeps watching me like he expects more resistance.
He’s probably disappointed when I don’t give it to him.
His gaze drops briefly to my hip.
Then back to my face.
Something shifts in his expression.
He reaches out and hooks two fingers in the waistband of my jeans just long enough to tug me closer.
“That mark means something to me,” he says.
I go still.
Of course we’re back to that.
My mouth flattens. “I’m aware.”
“But.” His voice stays level. “You will need another.”
I cross my arms harder. “That’s comforting. For what?”
He ignores the bite.
“To tell my people you’re under my protection. That no one touches you. No one questions your place in front of me. No one puts hands on you unless they want me to remove them.”
“And if I don’t want to?”
His answer comes too fast. “Too late.”
Heat flashes sharp up my spine. “See, there it is. There’s the part where you make me want toshootyou.”
“That’s fine.” He steps closer, voice dropping. “Shoot me later. Listen now.”
I hate that I do.
He taps once over his own chest, over that blank space above his heart where I know my name sits hidden under fabric and skin and whatever madness made him do that to himself.
Then he says, “You’re already etched into me. To this house. To this organization. The question now is whether it stays half-visible and dangerous, or whether I make it official enough that no one tries to test it.”
A cold little feeling moves through me.
Official.
“How official?”
His stare doesn’t waver. “Bratva official.”
For a second the armory seems even colder.
