Fucking rage.
I’ll take it over catatonic any day.
“No!” I grip a handful of hair and force her beneath the flow. “When was the last time you washed your hair?”
“It’s none of your business.”
“Your business is my business, little monster.”
“Fuck you, you asshole.”
I tug her head backward and bring my face to hers. “Be careful what you ask for.”
Her eyebrows come together, but then she glares. The shower steams around us. “I should whip your ass.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“You could have been killed.”
“Like you care.”
“And if you’d made it, you could have maimed Kentucky Lightning.”
At that she stops. No smart-ass comment. I wonder if she’d thought about that. But it’s only a moment of silence before she’s slapping at my chest and shoving to get around me.
“You want to fight? Do you?”
“Yeah, dickhead. I’d love a fight.”
“You got it. Maybe this is exactly what you need.” I switch off the water and lift her off her feet, hauling her over my shoulder as soon as I step out of the shower.
She kicks. I slap her ass once, twice, three times, the sound of my hand on her wet cheek reverberating off the walls as she pounds against my back, nails digging in to scratch rivulets into my skin.
“I’ll give you some fresh scars to go with the one you’re trying to hide,” she tells me when I throw her onto the bed.
She bounces twice, and before she’s up on her elbows, I’m on top of her. I fist her hair. She buries her fingernails in my chest, digging mercilessly.
“What did you want out there? Tell me.”
“You don’t get to know what’s in my head. You’ve more than proven you don’t give a fuck about me! Besides, what are you afraid of?” She asks as I tug on her hair. She winces, hands coming to my forearm to pry me off. “That you won’t get your payday if I’m dead? Or that you’ll have to answer to my brother? Because he will fucking kill you if you hurt me!”
“Is that it, then? You wanted to kill yourself?” I release her hair and sit back, keeping my weight on my thighs as I straddle her to keep her pinned.
“Like I said, you don’t care!” She slaps my chest. I let her. A look of surprise crosses her features when I don’t stop her, and she does it again, then again, then again. “Fight me, you bastard!” She slaps my face this time, but it’s hesitant.
“Stop, Mercedes.”
“Fight me!” She slaps harder, making my cheek sting.
I catch her wrists, grip them in one hand, and lay on top of her, my weight partially on the bed, partially on her.
“Fight!” she screams, and I look at her, seeing the sadness of it all, the truth of it. She would have hurt herself. Worse. That’s how far this has come.
“No,” I tell her. “Enough fighting.”
She struggles beneath me, eyes wet with hurt and tears and hopelessness.
“Mercedes.”