The alley is dark, the air chilled with pre-sunrise dew. It doesn’t smell great, but the overall aesthetic is a fitting backdrop for the worst conversation of my life.

“Say that again.”

“I—don’t—remember,” I snarl through my teeth.

“Why, London? Why are you lying to me? I saw him say something to you. I saw the horror on your face.”

Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. “Nice of you to intervene on my behalf.” My voice is as acidic as my roiling stomach. “Oh wait—no, that’s right—you were too busy flirting with two bimbos in VIP. Why do you care, anyway? It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

“Sir?” asks Nate timidly. “It’s super late and security keeps giving us looks. Maybe we should—”

“Not until she tells me the truth.”

I snort. “You could always beat it out of me.” The flash of hurt on his face is so quick I convince myself I imagined it.

Expression hard, Cross reaches for me. “I’m taking you home.”

I shuffle back, jabbing a finger in his direction. “No. I’m going home with Nate.”

He glances at the side. “Nathan, leave.”

“Uhh—”

“Don’t order him around!”

“Now, Nathan!”

Nate looks from Cross to me, and I know I’ve lost. “I’m sorry, London,” he whispers, then races down the alley.

I grab my hair at the scalp and scream through my teeth. It doesn’t help, so I unleash on Cross, shoving him as hard as I can. My efforts result in low, dangerous laughter. In a second flat, I’m trapped in his arms, my back to his front. Of course the position is purposeful, a reminder of another man’s recent embrace.

“This is your fault,” I seethe. “I wouldn’t have been out there at all if I hadn’t seen you winking at some slut upstairs when she shoved her tits in your face.”

More laughter, this time surprised. “Oh, really? That bothered you?”

“No! I don’t care who you fuck. You’re obviously getting it somewhere since you’re not getting it from me. Is it her? That brunette?”

His chest vibrates against my spine. “Jealousy brings out the kitten’s claws.”

Anger and helplessness spiking again, I thrash in his arms. “Let me go.”

“You’re only hurting yourself,” he says with insufferable calm. “Calm down and let me show you how to break free.”

The words finally register. I go limp, physically and emotionally spent.

“Good girl,” he murmurs. “Now, step your feet forward to allow space between us. Lean back.”

“I’m going to fall,” I protest.

“An attacker isn’t going to let go that easily. In fact, they’ll most likely try to drag you backward.” He demonstrates, my heels digging into asphalt a few feet before he stops. “Once there’s space, make a fist and punch backward. Aim for the junk. If you miss the first time, don’t give up. Keep pounding away.”

Hands in fists, I hesitate. “I don’t want to, um, hurt you.”

He laughs in delight. “You won’t, kitten.”

“Are you saying I can’t?” I stiffen with affront. “What’s the point, then?”

“No,” he says with barely restrained mirth. “I’m saying that ninety-nine percent of the male population can’t defend themselves like I can.”

Basically GI-Joe.

“Right. Okay.” I swing my fist back, landing a pitiful impact on his thigh.

“Do you even know where a man’s dick is?”

I swing harder. Alternating hands. He dodges every blow, but murmurs encouragement. “Yep, got him. Again. Nice. Good job. Make sure you keep your feet forward or he’s going to pull you back and you’ll lose the advantage.”

Panting, I sag. “I’m still stuck.”

“Only because I need to guide you through what happens next.” His arms fall, robbing me of his heat. I scowl at him and wiggle my fingers for him to hurry up. Smirking, he points at my legs. “Those are your best weapon, especially with heels. Sometimes, a punch where it counts will be enough for you to get away and run. But it’s best to kick immediately after he releases you, while he’s still standing and not hunched over mourning his shriveled balls.”

I gape at him. His eyes are alight with passion, his voice instructive and encouraging. He looks… happy.

His brows lift. “What?”

I shake my head quickly. “Nothing. You were saying?”

He waves me forward and taps his chest, then his stomach. “Aim here or here depending on height. Kick high and hard, then run. Let’s see it.”

“Let me guess, I can’t actually hurt you?”

He chuckles. “Come on. Don’t be shy.”

This time, I don’t give him any warning. I aim a kick at his stomach, using the skills from years playing soccer as a kid. He doesn’t flinch as he catches my spiked heel millimeters from his abdomen. We stare at each other for a pregnant beat, then with a soft stroke of fingers on my ankle, he releases my leg.

“Nice form,” he says, lips twitching.

“Told you I’m a badass.”

A smile breaks free. “Do you feel better?”

I nod, blowing out a breath. “I do.”

“Good. I want you to sign up for weekly self-defense classes. When you’ve done that for a month, you need to start running. A mile to start, then increase until you can run five miles without stopping. Understood?”

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” He steps close and cups my face with warm hands. “It’s important to me that you know how to protect yourself if I’m not there. Can you do this for me?”

I swallow hard. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” His forehead drops to mine. “I couldn’t get there in time. I’m sorry.”

Off-kilter, I mutter, “Not your fault.”

Kissing my forehead, he draws back to look me in the eyes. “It was. I’m not seeing or fucking anyone else. I shouldn’t have allowed that woman to touch me. It was disrespectful to you, and I’m sorry. Which is the only reason I’m not going to punish you for dancing with that dickhead. But if you do something like that again, I guarantee you won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week.”

Heat funnels through me as I imagine what that might entail. My mouth parts on a shallow breath. “I’m sorry.”

He smiles softly, thumb grazing my cheek. “Don’t be. You answered a question that’s been bothering me for a while.”

“Huh? What question?”

“Whether you give a shit about me beyond what I do to you in my loft.” Without waiting for a response—not that I have one—he wraps an arm around my shoulders and guides me out of the alley. “Let’s get you home. And by home, I mean shackled to a bench.”

“I thought you weren’t punishing me!”

He grins down at me. “Who said anything about punishment?”

Oh.