“Outside.”
“Fine. My ride’s here,”I say, pushing myself to my feet. The movement sends a fresh wave of pain through my ribs, but I stifle a groan, hoping Bea doesn’t notice. But of course she does—those big eyes don’t miss a thing.
“Let me help you,” she says, moving toward me with that same careful distance she’s been maintaining all morning.
“I’ve got it,” I snap, more harshly than I intend to. I don’t want her to see me as an injured project. I want to lift her up and press her back against the wall to fuck her senseless. But her flinch makes me regret my tone instantly. “Sorry,” I mutter. “I’m not great at being injured.”
“Or at accepting help apparently,” she adds, a hint of the old spark returning to her voice.
I can’t help the small smile that tugs at my lips. “That too.” The mention of my injuries reminds me of our agreement last night, and I blurt it out without thinking. “So, ten grand, right?”
Bea’s back snaps straight. “For what?”
“I promised you ten thousand dollars for taking care of me,” I explain helpfully.
“Takingcareof you?” Her nostrils flare as her giant eyes suddenly turn into tiny slits.
“You know, my concussion.” I point at my head, realizing how wrong it must sound after we just had an adventurous night. “I promised you money for helping me out,” I start mumbling, “and not snitching me out to Ezra. Not for the sex. It’s too much for sex.”
“Too much for sex? With me? Ten grand is too much?” Her eyes start shooting lightning my way. “How much do you think I’m worth? Ten bucks?”
“No! You are worth much more!” I cry out, feeling cornered. The funny part being that I’ve put myself here.
“So you think of me as a hooker?” She places her hands on her hips, and my shoulders drop, defeated, because I’m just digging myself into a deeper hole.
“No, Beatrice. That’s not what I meant.” I sigh. “I just wanted to say that I’ll keep my promise and send you the money for keeping me alive. That’s all. How it escalated beyond that—I have no idea.”
She watches me with tightly pursed lips for a moment before she drops her arms by her side, looking more relaxed.
“Don’t send me anything. It was wrong to agree to take the money in the first place.”
“I will?—”
“No.” She stops me with a raised hand. “Don’t. We are done with this conversation. Please.”
I watch her face for a few seconds, considering what I should do about this, but seeing how troubled her face is, I give her a short nod and let it go.
She walks me to the door, keeping a careful distance between us like she wasn’t riding my dick a few hours ago. The hallway outside her apartment looks even grimier in daylight—peeling paint, flickering lights, a faint smell of mildew hanging in the air. The thought of her walking through this every day makes my jaw clench.
“You shouldn’t be living here,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her spine stiffens immediately. “Not all of us can afford penthouses, Mr. King.”
And just like that, we’re back to formality. Mr. King. The title grows between us like a wall.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, turning around to stop her from following me. “This place isn’t safe.”
“I manage just fine. Three years of Krav Maga, remember?” She pops her arm to show me her tiny bicep.
“Bea,” I try reasoning, “any man can take you down no matter how many years you have under your belt. The sheer size will win.”
She throws me a withering look as she tries to walk past me.
“Where are you going?” I ask, gently grabbing her hand.
“Walking you to the elevator.”
Feeling the anger rising in my chest, I try suppressing it from my voice, but it doesn’t work. “I can walk just fine on my own.”
