“I didn’t steal?—”
“Little Thief.” He tsks. “Lying’s bad, remember?”
“Says the man who stole from me.”
“Says the girl wearing my clothes.” He tightens his hold on the fabric in his hand and tugs me closer. Not forcibly. Just…deliberate, I guess. As if to prove a point. That he’s in control. And me? I’m nothing but his plaything. “Although…”
His words hang in the air, allowing me a moment to fill in the blank, and it doesn’t take a genius to pick up what he’s putting down, even if he doesn’t mean it. No, he wants to make me uncomfortable. He wants to knock me off guard the same way I did when I showed up at his fight, even if the idea of me wearing his clothes is weirdly…hot.
I shove the thought aside. Nope. I’m not going to open that door even if he’s handing me the key. “Don’t flatter yourself,” I finally grind out.
His smirk falls. “How long have you known Morgan?”
“Excuse me?” I repeat, and I swear I’m not stupid but the way this man bounces between subjects leaves me dizzy. Or maybe it’s the smell of his cologne? Seriously, it’s unfair how good this man smells. Pine and wood and earth and?—
“I said, how long have you known Morgan?” he repeats.
Morgan? Who the hell is—oh. Ethan. Ethan Morgan. Jagger’s interrogating me about the fight. I guess I don't blame him. From what I’d heard, Jagger had never lost until last weekend. It’s gotta be a solid hit to the ego. Literally. And seeing me with the enemy? I wonder if he’s thought about it. Clearly, he has. But why?
I peek up at Jagger again, taking in the dark bruising and reddish tint tainting the whites of his eye. A pang of…somethinghits between my ribs. The irony isn’t lost on me. Because even though I went to watch him get his ass kicked, when it actually happened, I didn’t like it. At all. And even now, I can’t figure out why. None of the other fights bothered me. Hell, I could appreciate them for what they were. A sport. A performance. And sure, there weren’t quite as many rules as hockey or football, but the point was still very clear. Pick a side. Cheer. Protest. Soak up every drop of adrenaline as if it’s your own, and applaud the winner, mourn the loser. Rinse and repeat. So why did I want to smack Ethan for rehashing the same two minutes over and over again, every retelling containing a little more of his victory and a little less of Jagger’s.
“Are you and him a thing?” Jagger demands.
My brows pull. Who? Me and Ethan? A thing? The idea alone is laughable, but it serves its purpose and is enough to bring me back to earth. To remind me that Jagger and I aren’t friends. We aren’t even acquaintances. He’s nothing but an ass who royally screwed me over, and I’m…no one.
“It’s none of your business,” I announce. “And neither is how long I’ve known Ethan Morgan or where I got my sweatshirt, so unless you have something to say about the money you stole from me, I think I’ll be on my way.”
I start to move around him, but his grip on my sweatshirt tightens. “Not finished talking, Little Thief.”
“It’s cute you think I care.” My attention flicks from his hold on me to his eyes. “Do you feel like getting kneed in the balls again or…?”
“I said, I’m not finished talking.”
Not finished talking. Who does this guy think he is? The king of England? My nostrils flare at the audacity of this man whose ego is obviously still very much intact despite his ass being handed to him. I slap his hand away, and surprisingly, he lets me go.
Well that was…easy? Refusing to look him in the eye, let alone acknowledge my own confusion at how effortlessly the man knocks me off kilter even when he’s doing what I want him to, I rip the stupid hoodie off my body and shove it into his chest. “Here. One less thing for you to bitch about and irrationally hold over my head. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I grab the backpack from the ground and toss it over my shoulder. However, when it falls against my back, a sharp hiss slips past my clenched teeth, and I flinch.
Ouch!
Something flashes in his dark eyes as Jagger stares down at me. Watching me. Analyzing me. Replaying the last three seconds in his mind while searching for clues. For the reason behind my strange and seemingly unwarranted response. It only confuses me more. Because there isn’t a single guy I’ve ever met who would’ve noticed my reaction. Yet here he is, the one man I want nothing to do with, giving me a pointed—almost lethal—look, all because he noticed my discomfort.
My pulse ratchets up as I stand in front of him. Speechless. Motionless. Simply waiting, even though I have no idea what I’m waiting for. It’s like, if I move, if I say something, it’ll trigger a response, and the last thing I need is a response or a reaction from the infamous Jagger Harden. Nope. What I need from this guy is…nothing. Nothing at all. I take it back. What I need is for Jagger Harden to stop looking at me like this. Like he knows. Like he’s so close to snapping, he doesn’t even need to actually see the evidence behind my discomfort. The only thing holding him back is…me.
His name sits on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back, determined to maintain the silence rather than witness the potential fallout that might follow. I don’t know why. It’s not like he’d care, it’s just…not his problem.
It’s not his problem.
Without a word, Jagger lifts his hand and slips it around the opposite strap on my backpack. And for some reason I can’t explain, I let him. Lowering the bag back to the ground, he moves around me in a slow, calculated step. It reminds me of the first time we met. When he caught me in his brother’s room. And just like before, my body freezes in place while my head swivels on instinct, following his movement and catching the same spark of understanding when his vision finally lands on my lower back and what I know is peeking beneath my crop top.
“What the fuck?—”
“I fell.” The lie slips out of me easily but hangs in the air with a weight I don’t expect.
His attention doesn’t leave my back as he continues his assessment. “Fell,” he repeats. Numbly. Coldly.
I’m not an idiot. He doesn’t believe me. Hell, I don’t believe me, but I don’t know what else he wants me to say. Keeping his movements slow and calculated, he brushes his knuckle against the tender skin. I flinch again, shying away from his touch. “Okay, enough.”
“Who did this to you?” he growls.
