“Well listen here, girl,” I go on. “You’re not as clever as you think you are—andyou don’t make the fucking rules. Which means you’re gonna sit your little ass down and behave yourself like a good girl ’til morning comes and I figure out what the fuck to do with you. Got that?”
Her nostrils flare. More emotion flickers in her dark gaze.
I’ve realized she’s not only a rude little thing. Not only a stubborn little thing. But she’s also a nonverbal little thing.
Half of what she says remains unsaid—spoken only by the subtle tells and cues she gives.
Maybe it’s a side effect of being trafficked and held prisoner by the Bratva. You learn to stop using your voice and express yourself by other means.
Or maybe this is how the girl is.
Some say I’m a mystery for the same reason. I’m usually found scowling and brooding in the corner, arms folded with an aggressive energy that makes most people uncomfortable.
I prefer things that way. But, in truth, I don’t have much to say. The things on my mind are for me only.
We find ourselves in another staring contest, which seems to be our thing. Two moody assholes glaring at each other ’til one of us blinks.
…then my gaze accidentally slips to the plain white tank top she’s wearing, and I notice how it’s pretty fucking obvious she’s not wearing a bra.
This up close, under the studio lighting, her dark nipplespeek through the thin fabric. The draft in the room doesn’t help matters, making them stiff and puckered.
Every man knows when you stare at a woman’s tits, you do socovertly; you do it as a quick, subtle glance when she’s not paying attention.
You don’t fucking do it when she’s glaring right up at you and can see your gaze drop to her chest.
But what can I say?
I’m a red-blooded male, and it’s been almost four fucking weeks since I’ve had a woman. I go cold turkey on them when training for fights, but with the constant testosterone surging in my veins, it’s torture at times.
It’s like putting a slab of red meat in front of a ferocious lion; it’s like I’m some horny dog ready to hump anything that moves.
Still, I quickly avert my gaze and mutter, “Shit.”
She’s spun around, her shoulders going rigid with tension as she gives me her back.
“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to?—”
“Can you just leave me to my corner?”
“Have it your way.”
We go our separate ways. Me heading off toward the bathroom. My temporary houseguest further tucking herself into the corner by the kitchen table and chairs.
I stalk toward the bathroom feeling like an idiot for being shamed in my own damn apartment. First for taking off my shirt. Now for accidentally peeking at her tits.
“I’ll be in the shower,” I grit out, snatching a pair of sweatpants from the dresser drawers. “There’s a spare rollaway bed I’ve got in my closet. I’ll pull it out for you so you can get some sleep.”
Jhene doesn’t answer, still facing away from me.
“For fuck’s sake. Just behave yourself, alright?” I growl, then slam shut the bathroom door. I crank the shower to itshottest setting and strip down to step under the lukewarm spray.
What the fuck have I gotten myself into?
I wake up to the sound of my own snoring, which is never a good sign.
It’s bright out, which tells me I’ve also overslept and missed my ass-crack-of-dawn training session at the gym, and the light floods the studio so much it burns my fucking retinas.
I squint and sit up, so disoriented you’d think I got shit faced last night.
