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Jake dropped the last thug onto the hardwood floor, the thump of the body music to his ears. Blood dripped off his fists, courtesy of the smashed-in faces of the bastards lying around him. He wiped the blood absently on his pants, removing the excess from his hands.
Straightening, he turned to face you. The mixture of shock and mild horror on your pretty features immensely pleased him; he glimpsed, hidden behind those emotions, a spark of excitement.
"What the fuck?"
His lips peeled back from his teeth. "Hola, señorita."
"That's señora to you," you couldn't help but snap. You flinched, fear flickering in your face as you heard what you had said.
Jake watched you tense defensively, your beautiful eyes tracking him warily.
"What's with the accent?" you asked as the silence stretched, neither of you taking your eyes off each other.
He shrugged, switched to English. "It's useful."
"For what?"
"All kinds of things." His gaze raked over you, lingering on all the right places. It pleased him to see a flush snake up your neck.
"Look, I appreciate what you just did, but uh, you kinda just landed me into even shittier...shit because of it." The words came out in a breathless rush.
"They would've hurt you."
"Maybe...I deserve it."
He cocked his head. "Do you? Deserve it?"
Your neck moved as you swallowed thickly. He watched the motion before dragging his eyes back up to your face.
"You're dangerous," he purred, approaching you slowly. "I like that. But the question is, are you just a dangerous woman or are you dangerous to Steven and Marc?"
"I-"
"Because if you're dangerous to them, then you and I have a problem. And I don't want a problem. Steven really likes you, and Marc doesn't realize he is starting to, too. And now that I've seen this"-he gestured to the fallen bodies-"I'm starting to like you, too."
Hand clenching and unclenching, the muscle in your jaw flexing, you said, "Define 'dangerous.'"
He tapped the side of his nose. "Clever."
You flashed your teeth at him. "Define it, though."
He stepped close enough to smell your perfume and the tang of adrenal-soaked sweat. "Steven and Marc can't get hurt around you."
"Aren't...you Marc?"
"No."
The furrow in your brow amused him. Temptation to bop the bunched skin and muscle rolled through him.
"You would've been fine," you muttered, "if you hadn't tried to step in."
"Marc can't help himself," Jake explained. "You were a broad in distress to him."
You snorted. The corner of Jake's lips pulled up into a cocky grin.
"Okay, not Marc," you challenged, "then you're telling me that you would've done nothing."
"Well..." He looked you over again, lips still curved. "I would've waited to see what you're hiding first."
"I'm not hiding anything."
"Mentirosa."
"Don't call me that."
"Or what?"
Your jaw flexed again. "If anyone's a liar, it's whoever the fuck you are."
"At least I admit it."
"What the fuck do you want from me?"
He couldn't help but think of a few things, the kind that made his smile libidinous. What emerged from his mouth, however, was, "To get you out of this apartment."
You would have taken another step back if there had been room behind you. Your body pressed harder against the wall. Jake's nostrils flared.
"I don't think so," you growled.
"They'll send more men."
"Then they'll send them, and I'll be here."
He chuffed, shook his head. "You weren't listening." He leaned forward into your space, cheek brushing yours as he pressed his lips to your ear. "Escúchame bien. You are not getting hurt or killed tonight, because that would hurt Steven and Marc. You are going to grab a bag of clothes, and we are going to leave."
He drew back to show you the seriousness in his dark eyes. "¿Me entiendes?"
You stared back at him defiantly for a moment, enough to amuse him. Then your attention drifted past his shoulder, presumably to the dead men on your floor. Grinding your teeth, you shot him a glare and jerked your head in agreement.
You had to squeeze past him, your body pressing against his chest as you sidled along the wall.
While you threw clothes into a bag, Jake surveyed your apartment. He noted family pictures on the wall, not all of which depicted you smiling. His fingers brushed over your face in each photo as he circled around the room, pausing to glance at the spines of the books scattered about. Perusing the contents of your fridge, he pocketed some string cheese and opened one with his teeth.
You threw in the last of your clothes when he appeared in the doorframe, his gaze cataloging everything he saw. You shot him a displeased glare, but he ignored it in favor of glimpsing your messy bed and the bra hanging off the doorknob of the adjacent bathroom. To his disappointment, it wasn't lacy or frilly, but that didn't mean you didn't have any.
"Let's go," you growled, shoving past him. Your bag smacked into him on the way out.
He grinned, amused by your frustrated attempts at punishing him. You wanted to hurt him.
He wanted you to try.
Following you into the living room, he watched you pause by the thug leader. Your mouth twisted. You brutally swung your foot into the bastard's face.
