Page 18 of Striker’s Rebel

“Good thing I’m not asking you to join my club.”

The bastard almost smiles.

“You are unbelievably bossy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“And arrogant.”

“Heard that too.”

“I’m beginning to understand why.”

His amusement disappears when his gaze drops to my arm. The places where fingers dug into me are already darkening, and the change in him is instant. His jaw hardens. His eyes go cold.

“I’m going home,” I tell him.

“I know.”

“Alone.”

“No.”

I blow out a breath. “Are we really doing this again?”

“If you keep giving me the wrong answer.”

“That is not how answers work.”

“It is tonight.”

I should be furious.

Unfortunately, my body has also decided that six-foot-four of tattooed biker calmly refusing to leave me unprotected is something worth reacting to. My pulse skips when he steps closer, which is ridiculous considering everything else it has survived tonight.

“I have locks.”

“You had three men waiting outside a locked bar.”

“My house is different.”

“Jamie knows where you live?”

I hesitate.

Striker catches it immediately.

“That’s what I thought.”

“He’d never come to my house.”

“He’d never cornered you in a parking lot either, no?”

I hate when people make good points while annoying me.

He glances toward Jamie before looking back at me. “Men like him get mean when somebody makes them feel small. I just made him feel real fucking small.”

Cold slips through my stomach because I know he’s right.