Page 19 of Striker’s Rebel

“You drive home,” he says. “I follow. You lock your door, and I stay outside it until morning. You don’t have to entertain me, feed me, talk to me, or even like me.”

“I’m doing very well with the last one.”

His mouth curves, and the small change does entirely too much to his face. For someone built to intimidate people, his almost-smile is unfairly attractive.

Worse, I’m already learning the differences in his expressions. The cold look he gave Jamie. The quiet amusement he keeps aiming at me. The sharp focus that appears whenever he notices the bruises on my arm.

I’ve known him less than an hour.

I should not already be learning his face.

“But I’m staying.”

The certainty in his voice hits somewhere uncomfortable.

All my life, I’ve been the one who pays attention. I check locks, watch strangers, keep my keys between my fingers in dark parking lots, and make sure Eliana gets inside before I drive away.

I’m not used to anyone taking that job from me.

Striker simply decided I shouldn’t have to handle tonight alone.

I don’t know what to do with that, so naturally, I get irritated.

“If you get arrested for stalking me, I’m not paying your bail.”

“Club has a lawyer.”

“That is not remotely reassuring.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be.”

I point at him. “Outside the door.”

“Whatever you say, little rebel.”

I freeze. “What did you call me?”

He’s already turning toward his bike.

“Striker.”

He looks back.

“Do not start giving me nicknames.”

His gaze travels over me slowly enough to send heat beneath my skin.

“Too late.”

I hate how much I like that.

Ten minutes later, I glance into my rearview mirror and find the single headlight of Striker’s motorcycle exactly where it has been since we left the Red Den.

Apparently when the man says he’s following me home, he means every mile of it.

He doesn’t crowd me or act like the road belongs to him. He simply stays there, steady behind me every time I check.

Which I absolutely do not do seventeen times. Give or take.