Bronx walks further into the room with that smooth confidence of his.
“What about my permission?” I follow him, keeping a distance I don’t trust myself to close. “I don’t want you anywhere near me. Get the fuck out, Bronx, and go play husbandwith someone else.”
“I’m right where I need to be,” he replies, adjusting the position of the tray on the table. “And we both know the playing stopped when feelings got involved.”
My pulse kicks harder at that and almost laugh at myself for giving him the once over, even now.
“The only feelings I have are pure hatred and irritation,” I snap. “And you’re the cause of it.”
His gaze flicks to me, and for a second, I fall into how it used to be. How having his attention lit me up inside, even when I tried to deny it.
“Understood, princess,” he says, his tone even, certain in a way that only makes my blood scorch. “You can still pretend to hate me while you eat.”
The nerve of him.
The absolute nerve.
“I don’t think you realise how deep this hate runs, Bronx.” I reach out and grab the silver knife from inside the linen napkin, my fingers tightening around the handle as I hold it out, the steel glinting in the light between us.
“We’re not on good terms now, or ever,” I warn, my voice strained from tiredness, “and I swear to God I’ll use this.”
After a beat, he looks at the knife, then back at me, and just to piss me off even more, he smiles.
“Come on, you didn’t take fifteen stitches saving my life just to give me matching ones, did you?”
“Fuck you!”
I dart around the trolley, fast enough that the walls blur and my wound throbs. However, the stupid knife gets nowhere near him.
His hand closes around my wrist, stopping themovement, just enough to redirect it away. I lash out anyway, the other hand coming up to hit him square in the chest.
“Of course you’d come here when I’m off my game,” I hiss. “This is a prime Viacava move. Selfish and always needing to win.”
He catches my other wrist before I can swing again, his grip still careful, as if he’s more concerned about hurting me than anything I could do to him.
“You’ll tear your stitches, princess,” he says, and there’s a warning in it now. “Sit down.”
“Do not tell me what to do.”
I struggle against him anyway, pushing forward, trying to shove him back, using up the last reserves of energy I have left. And he takes it. There’s no fighting back this time.
Bronx doesn’t overpower me like I know he could. Nor does he throw me off and spout some bullshit about respect.
Instead, he guides me backward with my momentum until I’m sitting on the bed.
My chest rises and falls in shallow bursts; my mind caught between driving my fist into his jaw and putting as much distance between us as possible.
I should punch him.
But my body hesitates, remembering the strength of those hands on me for entirely different reasons.
He watches me through it, still holding my wrist.
“Take your fucking hands off me, Bronx.”
After a racing heartbeat, he lets go of one wrist, then the other.
Instead of stepping back, he lowers himself in front of me. My breath stutters as Bronx drops to one knee, hisgaze never leaving mine.
