Page 32 of Dead Devil's Playground
Princess. The condescension in his tone makes something snap inside me. I'm about to tell him exactly who he's talking to when a hand clamps down on the collar of my leather jacket, yanking me backward.
"She's with me," a familiar voice growls. "Now fuck off."
The firefighter backs away, hands raised in surrender. Before I can react, Hudson hauls me back to the motorcycle. He shoves me into its curve, then swings himself up in front of me. The engine roars to life under his grip, and I wrap my arms around his waist as we tear away from the chaos.
The city lights blur in our wake. My heart hammers, adrenaline still screaming through my veins. Hudson steers us through a tangle of side streets, the night air whipping at my face. I try to speak, but the wind steals my words.
After what feels like an eternity, he cuts the engine at a deserted overlook, kicking down the stand. He dismounts in one fluid motion, stalking away from the bike. His boots kick up gravel as he paces, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Below us, the town's lights glitter, oblivious to the fury building in my chest.
"Why the fuck were you there?" he demands, whirling to face me, his voice low and dangerous.
Something in me cracks. Maybe it's the exhaustion, or the accumulation of blows we've taken over the past days, or the way he's looking at me like I'm a child who needs protection. Whatever it is, I feel myself fracture, control slipping away like water through cupped hands.
"Why the fuck was I there?" I repeat, my voice rising hysterically as I leap off the bike and storm toward him. "That's my fucking coffee shop, Hudson! Mine! Another piece of what I built burning to the ground while I'm supposed to, what, sit at home and wait for you to handle it?"
He steps closer, crowding me but I stand my ground. "You're dead on your feet," he hisses. "Look at you—you can barely stand. When was the last time you fucking slept? What exactly were you planning to do there besides collapse?"
"I don't know!" I shout, shoving at his chest. "Something! Anything! I'm so fucking sick of being reactive, of watching everything burn while we scramble to catch up!"
My hands connect with his chest again, but this time he catches my wrists, jerking them behind my back which only draws me closer to him. His body presses against mine, trapping me in place.
"You think I don't understand that?" His voice drops to a dangerous whisper. "You think I like watching you run yourself into the ground? Watching you take risks that could get you killed?"
"Let go of me," I demand, struggling against his grip. But there's no real force behind it. I'm too tired, too strung out on adrenaline and grief and rage.
"No," he says simply. "Not until you listen to me." His face is inches from mine, his breath warm against my skin. "We are going to find who's behind this. We are going to make them pay. But not like this—not with you half-dead from exhaustion, making yourself an easy target."
"I'm not—" I start to protest, but he cuts me off.
"Yes, you are," he insists, his grip tightening on my wrists. "You're running on fumes and fury, and that makes you vulnerable. And I can't—" His voice breaks slightly, something raw and unguarded flashing in his eyes. "I can't protect you if you won't let me."
The sincerity in his voice, the naked concern in his eyes, disarms me more effectively than any physical restraint. My body sags in his grip, the fight draining out of me.
"I hate this," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I hate feeling helpless. I hate watching everything burn."
His expression softens marginally. "I know," he says, loosening his grip on my wrists but not releasing them entirely."But this isn't the way. You need rest. Real rest, not just passing out for an hour or two."
"I can't," I argue, though with less conviction. "Every time I close my eyes, I see fire. I see everything we built crumbling to ash."
Hudson's eyes narrow. "You think you're the only one who sees destruction every time you close your eyes? I've been a soldier. I know what it's like to have nightmares that feel more real than waking life."
"Oh, spare me the war stories, old man," I snap, the words flying out before I can stop them. "I don't need your PTSD therapy session."
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. His jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. "Old man?" he growls, and the sound sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. "I'll show you old."
Before I can react, his mouth crashes against mine. The kiss is brutal, all teeth and tongue and barely controlled rage. I want to push him away. I want to slap him. Instead, I find myself responding with equal ferocity, my body arching into his as if it has a mind of its own.
He walks me backward, his hands still gripping my wrists behind my back, until my ass hits the motorcycle. The cool metal against the backs of my thighs makes me gasp into his mouth.
"You're such an asshole," I pant when he finally breaks the kiss, my chest heaving.
His lips curve into something too predatory to be called a smile. "And you're a spoiled brat who doesn't know when to quit." His voice is rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. "But I know what you need right now."
"Oh yeah?" I challenge, tilting my chin up defiantly. "And what's that?"
"Something to burn away the images in your head," he murmurs, his lips brushing my ear. "Something to exhaust you so completely you can't think, can't dream, can't do anything but surrender."
I hate that he's right. I hate that he can read me so easily. Most of all, I hate how much I want what he's offering.
