Primal Pursuit

“I can take care of my fucking self.”

“No doubt. Name.”

“No.” She crosses her arms in sheer defiance.

“I’ll get his name and address either way. You telling me will just make it a little easier.”

She goes on her toes, determination swimming in her eyes as she tries to get as close as possible to my face. “I don’t need you to fight my battles for me. Like I said, I can take care of myself.”

I take a few beats, my gaze locked on to hers as I study her. She’s strong. Fearless. Maybe even a little too much for her own good. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let this slide. I’m not about to let someone think they can hurt my Rabbit without consequences.

I let out a low growl. “You don’t get to make that call, Rabbit. Not when it comes to your safety.”

Her eyes narrow further and I can see the stubbornness flickering behind them. “And who do you think you are? My protector?”

“Something like that.”

“Fuck you, Davian.”

She’s playing the hardball game. Probably needs to. The anger is what keeps her strong. Keeps her humming along and moving forward.

She needs it.

So do I.

“Get your shoes. Wash that shit off your face, and just put a little makeup on. Go. Now.”

When she stands there for a few beats, I begin to think she’s going to need me to make her do it. But she does it on her own, stomping off and slamming the bathroom door.

I wander through her place, ending up in the bedroom as I send a text for a reservation. I don’t need one, but I’m changing our plans and I want a specific table because a new plan’s forming in my head.

Christ, she really doesn’t have fucking much.

There’s a small jewelery box. It’s so out of place with its pink and pretty blue and green dancing princesses on it that I have to open it.

TinnyFür Eliseplays, and in the fake candy pink satin cavity are some cheap pieces of jewelery. Some worth a small amount, the kind of stuff given to a little girl and…

A diamond and emerald necklace? How the fuck did she get her hands on this one?

It’s fucking gaudy. Rich bitch with no taste shit. And it looks oddly familiar. I’ve probably seen a million hanging on scrawny necks that are variations. But I’m more interested in why she has it and how. Poppy doesn’t wear jewelry.

I put it back as my phone buzzes. Our table’s ready, and I wander back into the living room as she steps out of the bathroom.

Taking hold of her face, I raise it to the light. It’s clear where the bruises are forming, but she looks better without all that fucking makeup plastered on. I rub my thumb over the swollen part of her lip, keeping the rumbling anger suppressed as I bend down and kiss her slowly, biting down very, very deliberately and hard on that wound.

I’m rewarded with the taste of her blood, and I suck her lip into my mouth, running my tongue over the wound. “My wound now,” I say after I end the kiss, the wild need for ownership knocking at my chest.

Her eyes are softer now, and hungry—just the way I like her.

“Come on, Rabbit.”

“I told you?—”

“I’m not going after your landlord, okay? I’m not interested in that.” I’m so going to have fucking words with the dipshit, but just not yet. “You look too damn fine in that red dress to let some asshole motherfucker ruin our night. I’m taking you out.”

When we pull up at the restaurant, the valet takes the car and I lead her in. She spent the whole ride not talking to me, which got me hard. Rabbit’s like a one-woman erection-making machine, I swear to fucking God.

But I can almost hear her little sigh of relief at the darkness of the place. She fixed herself up in the car and managed not to shoot me—a bonus—but the dark of the restaurant must feel like a balm on her battered skin.