Keeping her tied to his bed was his particular favorite, but if she wasn’t into that, then he doubted he’d find much pleasure in it. He could lock her in the basement and seduce her there. The apartment-size
lower floor was secure, all but unbreachable, and fully furnished. There were far too many pieces of furniture that she could use as weapons once she realized she was pretty much a prisoner, though.
That left one last option. Confronting her with it.
Pulling out his chair, he straddled it, placed his forearms on the table, and watched her, waiting, knowing it was coming.
That gleam of mutiny. The fiery fight that filled her, the temper that was always just out of sight, making an appearance.
“Don’t you stare at me like that, Graham Brock,” she ordered him, voice low, lips tightening. “No one died and made you the boss of me.”
There it was.
“Keep telling yourself that,” he suggested softly, hearing the deep, unconscious rasp of command in his voice. A sound he’d rarely heard since coming home. “Convince yourself of that if you have to, Lyrica. Whatever helps you sleep at night. But if you slip out, if you run, if you give even a fucking second’s thought to facing this alone, then I promise you—take it to the fucking bank and cash this one, sweetheart—I will make damned sure you understand exactly how I can, and I will, ensure you never do something so stupid again.” Sitting back, he placed two sandwich halves and a handful of chips on her plate, pushed it to her, then served himself.
Her eyes hadn’t left his face. His expression hadn’t changed.
“Wanna try me?” he finally asked.
Pounding hard and heavy already, the pulse at her neck throbbed harder, faster. Her face was flushed, her gaze edged with an arousal he’d more than anticipated.
She cleared her throat before answering him. “Not at the moment.”
“And here I was hoping you would.” His teeth bit into the sandwich and he was rewarded with the faintest twitch of reaction from her.
Hell no, she had no intention of trying him. At least, not anytime soon. And in this case, he’d lied—he’d prayed she wouldn’t. Some lessons were best learned through pleasure rather than a need to prove exactly who was more dominant, who was the boss when it came to doing what he did best.
Protecting what he claimed as his.
SEVEN
“You’re not calling Dawg out of spite,” Lyrica said accusingly to Graham as he put away the remainder of the sandwiches and chips.
“You think?” Lifting his brows with heavy mockery, he pulled his cell phone from the holster at his side and placed it in the center of the table. “Bastard didn’t even let me know I wasn’t part of the group anymore. Damned inconsiderate if you ask me.”
She wasn’t certain if she should be amused by his consternation at being left out or outraged that it was the only reason he wasn’t contacting her brother.
“Dawg’s going to kick your ass, Graham. If Natches doesn’t beat him to it.” Crossing her arms on top of the table, Lyrica watched him worriedly.
The grin that tilted his lips was a little too playful. He sat back in the chair and watched her closely. Lyrica was trying damned hard not to think about the invitation she could see in his gaze.
“Natches isn’t going to take a bead on me for not calling nor will he kick my ass. He’ll throw his fist. Once. Dawg will get his turn and it will be over.” He seemed far too calm about it.
Lyrica shook her head. “That might be true, but you’re not considering one thing.”
“Oh, yeah?” His grin was confident, self-assured.
“Rowdy.”
Graham’s eyes narrowed back at her as though considering her answer. “Rowdy’s pretty laid-back. He lets Dawg and Natches get the bruises.”
“It all depends on how far you push him,” she informed him. “And I’m pretty certain that neglecting to let his wife know one of Dawg’s sisters, who she claims as her niece, is safe, would push him to that limit. Rowdy can be dangerous.”
“Rowdy also has the amazing ability to understand simple logic. Something Dawg and Natches aren’t so good at,” he snorted.
She couldn’t argue that one.
“But we’re not discussing Dawg and Natches.”