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“My mission would be easier if you were just a robot.” My damn erection taunts me. Wish I were a robot right now.
“This mission wouldn’t exist if I were dead.”
I explode. “That’s the point, Lindsay! My job is to keep you undead!”
“Your job is to turn me into a zombie?” She gives me a withering look.
I ignore that. “Where’s my gun?”
“What gun?”
I grab her arm, hard. My fingertips dig into her wiry muscles. I know I’m hurting her. A sick little corner of me enjoys hurting her. I can’t admit it, but she fucking gutted me back in her bedroom, letting me wake up like that. Alone. Used.
A mark for her sick little game. Is that all this is?
She squirms, but juts her chin up at me, defiant, glaring.
I dare you, those honey-brown eyes say, turning dark as this standoff continues.
Oh, yeah?
I don’t back down.
Ever.
Pain enters those eyes, then fear. Good. A healthy dose of fear means we’re getting somewhere. She should be afraid. Not of me. Of them.
Any fear, though, is progress.
“Let go.”
“My gun.”
She nudges her chin toward the bush behind me. I push her toward it.
“Get it.”
“How can I get it when you’re squeezing me like a nut in a wrench?”
“You got the ‘nut’ part right.”
She scowls, then rolls her eyes.
I’d laugh if I were in a different mood, but now I’m pissed. Not so much about the gun, which was bad.
Pissed that she left me like that.
And by pissed, I mean hurt.
“You are such an asshole. How can I bend over when you’re holding me like this?”
I reach up for her hair with my free hand and snake my fingers through it, threading it like a Chinese finger torture puzzle through my knuckles.
“What are you doing?”
I let go of her upper arm.
She bolts.
