Killian still wears the red shorts and has thrown on a black T-shirt. His muscles flex, but he doesn’t appear to be cold, or in pain due to the bruise peeking from his arm or the cut on his lip.
That’s from where the blood drips, smearing his chin and collarbone.
“Get in the car,” he orders with complete assurance.
Someone honks because the crazy bastard stopped in the middle of the street, but Killian doesn’t pay them attention.
I shake my head and try to bypass him.
“I can always go back in there and pick up where I left off. The only difference is that you’ll regret the decision once your precious Creighton ends up in a body cast.”
My fists clench. “Don’t.”
“I heard he doesn’t tap out. So maybe he’ll be hooked to a machine in a hospital next time you see him.”
“Stop it!”
“Get in the fucking car, Glyndon.”
The guy honks again and while Killian doesn’t seem to hear him, the sensory overload nearly drives me up the wall.
“Get out of the way, motherfucker!” the guy screams from the window in an American accent.
Once Killian stares at him, he swallows and reverses, then hits a rubbish can on his escape route.
“You have until the count of three. If you don’t get in the car, I’m going back to Creighton.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
“Three.”
The bastard didn’t even count.
He slides back into his car, and I don’t let my brain think as I throw the passenger door open and get inside.
I’m breathing harshly, my skin crawling and my heart about to leap out of my skin. It isn’t normal that I’m on an emotional upheaval whenever I’m in his orbit.
One hand on the steering wheel, the other casually lying by his side, he faces me. “That wasn’t so hard.”
I glare at him and cross my arms over my chest. “For your information, I still don’t trust you. In fact, I distrust you even more now that you proved you’re not only prone to violence, but you’d also threaten my family with it.”
“All humans are prone to violence. I just have better control over it.”
“You don’t sound so convincing with blood dripping all over your face.”
“Worried about me, baby?”
“You’d be bleeding out and I wouldn’t even notice. In fact, I’d use the blood to mix colors on my palette.”
“Ouch.” His voice drops. “Though you’re such a horrible liar. You looked as pale as a ghost when I was being punched.”
“I dislike violence, so it’s not about you. I would’ve reacted that way to anyone.”
“I choose to believe that you felt especially aggravated because it’s me.”
“That’s called delusional.”
“Semantics.” He reaches for the glovebox and I push against the leather of the seat.