Page 13 of Lovely Venom

“Cancel it.”

She peers up at me, her eyes searching mine. “Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

A crease forms between her brows as she mentally dissects this situation from every angle. I’ve never met anyone else with such deep-seated trust issues, and it unnerves me that she still feels a need to examine my motives. I don’t like unanswered questions, but I like it even less that I still want to know hers.

“Does everyone follow your commands when you issue them like that?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“And if they don’t?”

My lip twitches. “I get my way in the end.”

She releases a soft exhalation as her gaze drifts back to her phone. Still no ride—not that it matters. It’s late, cold, and there’s not a chance in hell I’m letting her get into a car with a stranger to drive her home.

With some lingering reluctance, she accepts her fate and cancels the ride.

“Okay, I’ll go with you, but I need to do something first.”

Her eyes dart toward the house, and I wonder if she still thinks there’s a chance Marco will do the right thing and pull his head out of his ass. Considering his behavior as of late, it’s unlikely.

She turns to limp that direction on her injured ankle, and I sigh.

“Chantel, what do you need?”

“I’m just going to ask the doorman if he can grab me something.”

“Tell me what it is, and I’ll get it. You can wait in the car.”

She pauses, knuckles whitening around the black clutch in her grasp. I’m prepared for an argument, but tonight, the thought of going back inside that house is the greater of two evils. That tells me everything I need to know.

“I have a few things upstairs in a bag,” she says quietly. “I don’t want to leave them here.”

I glance at her ankle and nod, choosing the path of least resistance to get her into the car.

“Wait here.”

She doesn’t protest as I walk to my Mercedes Maybach S600 and slip into the driver’s seat. When I pull up beside her, she takes in the details as I come around to join her. It’s a satin black exterior with blacked-out everything, dark tint, and smoked taillights. I’m used to people staring, but I don’t usually give a second thought to what’s going through their minds. Chantel fills in the blanks for me.

“If Mafia was a car, this would be it.” A hint of amusement colors her voice.

“Glad to hear you approve.” I open the back door and meet her gaze.

“You don’t have to chauffeur me,” she says.

“Get in.”

“Do you ever just ask anything nicely?” She hobbles closer before she slides onto the back seat.

“Since when do you like being asked nicely?”

A flush crawls down her throat as she shoots me a questioning glance.

I let her sit with that observation as I use the controls to shift the front seat forward and extend the leg rest until she’s in a recline position.

“Of course you have a private jet back here,” she muses. “Because why not?”