Justice’s gaze flicks toward me. “What the hell else was I supposed to do? They were loaded to fight, and they were coming in with grenades. They’d all be dead if I hadn’t put them in that trunk.”
“You could have taken them back to the nursing home,” I mutter, arms crossing tight over my chest.
“I could have,” he agrees, his voice sharp, “and they would’ve escaped again. Give me a break.”
I grind my teeth, because he’s right. “All right. You have a point.” The words taste sour, but I choke them out anyway. “And you didn’t hurt them. You did keep them safe.” I think about Mags, her stubborn grin and her bad habit of throwing grenades when things go sideways. I’ve tried to get her to stop using explosives on jobs, but she doesn’t listen. It’s probably best Justice never finds out how often they’ve blown things up. Sure, they never kill anyone, but accidents happen.
My voice rises before I can stop it. “Why did you punch Wesley? He was trying to protect me.”
Justice glances at me. Blood smears his cheek, his neck is bruised, and his knuckles are raw, split open like he punched through glass. His expression doesn’t flicker. “I think I was pretty clear about that,” he says mildly.
“All he did was step between us. He was trying to protect me.”
Justice’s gaze sharpens. “That’s not his job. It’s mine. He’s lucky I pulled the punch.”
My skin is buzzing, my pulse pounding, and I can’t believe the gall of him. “I don’t know what you think is going on between us, but it’s not. You don’t own me.”
“The fuck I don’t.”
My head jerks so hard I’m pretty sure I put out a disc. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” There’s fire in his tone now. Even though his voice stays calm, mild almost, every nerve in my body tries to take the heat. It’s too late for that. Notonly am I furious with him, I’m jacked up from finally exchanging energy with a decent-sized citrine. My body is still humming, alive and raw.
We walk through the cleaned-up penthouse, which is impressive, and he pushes open the door to his room. “Get changed.”
“No,” I say flatly.
“That’s it.” He grabs me, one hand sliding into my hair, fingers threading through and his palm cupping the back of my skull. The pull sends a sharp sting down my spine, oddly erotic but with a bite that leaves no question who’s in control. With that grip, he propels me straight into the bathroom and flips on the light.
“Haven’t we already done this?” I mutter.
“You are such a brat.”
The smack to my ass actually hurts, the sharp crack echoing in the tiled room. “Hey—”
“Do it, or I’ll do it for you.” He rips at his bloody clothes, peeling them off with rough, sure movements.
“Fine.” My voice scrapes. I’m covered in dust and blood and particles from the explosion. Every inch of me feels coated in grime. I yank off the ruined clothes and step under the warm spray. The water pours down my shoulders, sluicing away dirt and tension almost instantly. God, it feels good.
He follows me in without hesitation and nudges me aside so he can wash the blood off his face and hands. The water runs red for a moment before circling down the drain. I angle my head, studying him from the corner of my eye.
His body is spectacular—pure muscle, hard steel, unyielding. His shoulders look like they could hold up the weight of the building.
My gaze catches on the cut above his forehead. “You probably need stitches.”
“I don’t need stitches. Just a Band-Aid.”
He’s probably correct. If he’s been exchanging energy with garnets, and obviously he has, since Thorn’s out of town, his healing properties will be elevated. Yet another side effect of the gifts we’ve learned to enhance through the years.
He looks at me, eyes sharp through the steam. “Now’s about a good time for you to say thank you.”
No way. “For what?” I snap.
“Saving your damn life.”
“My godmother would’ve handled it.” I tap a finger on my lip, letting the water bead and drip off my chin.
He snorts.
