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“Why’s that?” Ezra shifts his eyes to me, a lazy grin spreading across his face.
“It’s not safe.” I give a small, unapologetic shrug. He snorts, then rolls his eyes and looks back at Ian.
“I’ll take you some time,” he says. “I’ll teach you.”
“Really?” Ian’s eyes sparkle with excitement. “Can we go this weekend?”
“Sure,” Ezra laughs. “We can go whenever you want. You can even come with us, love.” I roll my eyes.
“What part of it’s not safe did you not understand?” I grumble. “I don’t want him doing it.”
“What part of it’s perfectly fine and I’ll protect him with my life don’t you understand?” He gives me a firm look and I falter.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do,” he says. “Wholeheartedly.”
“Not when it comes down to it,” I say quietly. “They’re pretty words, Ez. But that’s all they are.” He stares at me for a moment, his jaw flexing. “Do you need the hospital?”
“No,” he says again, and I nod as I push to my feet.
“Then you can go home.” I turn to move toward the bathroom. His manic laugh makes my spine stiffen, and I freeze.
“I am home.”
“What?” I whirl to face him, finding him with his arm resting along the back of the couch, his legs still spread wide.
“I said, I am home.”
“No,” I say, drawing the word out. “You’re in my home. Go to yours.”
“This is my home.”
“Ian, go to your room,” I say in a low voice.
I glare at Ezra. Whatever tension is building between us, even Rasputin can feel because he jumps off the couch and follows Ian. I give him the First-Aid kit as he passes, then move slowly back to Ezra. Standing in the middle of the room, I put my hands on my hips.
“You need to get the fuck out of my house before I call the police,” I say. He settles deeper into the couch, giving me his cocky grin.
I want to fucking throttle him.
And to think, I was just feeling bad about Ian hitting him with the bat. Now I wish he would’ve hit him harder.
“Get out, Kiwi. I mean it.”
“That’s not my name,” he drawls.
“It’s the nicest thing I can call you right now.” I pinch between my eyes.
“Please get out. I’m tired and have to go into the café in a few hours.”
“Go to bed,” he says, jerking his chin toward the hall. “I’ll camp out here.” He scoots further down, making himself comfortable.
“Go. Home.”
“I am home,” he says again. He pushes to his feet, and I tip my head back to glare at him. I’m tall, but he’s still taller and I hate it. “One day, you’ll see this place as my home, too.”
“You’re not some fucking stray cat I’m bringing home!” I shout. “Get out!” I shove at his chest, trying to push him toward the door. He chuckles, as if it’s hilarious he’s refusing to leave my fucking house when I’m asking him to. Irritation fills me and I drop my hands away, letting out a frustrated growl. “God, you’re such a fucking freak. Get the fuck out!”
