“Yeah,” he agrees. “I was there at the fight club and personally heard it.”
“Hold on. What in the actual fuck?” Remi gets in my face. “A date? You went on a date and didn’t tell me? And what’s with the ownership declaration when I wasn’t there? How am I your mentor if you don’t come to me in times like these? And I’m the last one to know? You bitches have conspired to kill me young, haven’t you?”
“We haven’t gone on a date,” I say.
Annika flinches in my hold, but she forces one of her loathsome fake smiles. “Yeah, it’s not what you guys think. No date.”
“Not one date. Dates.”
Everyone stares at me, dumbfounded, Annika included. The whole scene draws attention to us, considering we’re the only unmoving ones in the midst of the unfolding chaos.
“Wait. Dates?” Ava all but shouts.
“Plural, yes.” I stroke my fingers over Annika’s heated skin and stare between Remi and Bran. “She’s mine. If I find out either of you touched her, prepare to lose a limb.”
Then I spin her around and my mouth claims hers in a savage kiss. My arms envelop her waist like a shackle, preventing her from escaping my possessive hold. All she can do is gasp, open up, and let me feast on her.
She sways on her feet when I release her lips and I drag her out of the club while the other four stand there in stunned silence.
Annika keeps up with my steps, her expression still caught in complete bewilderment.
“Uh, are you sure that was a good idea—”
“If you’re in the mood to be able to sit at all tomorrow, shut the fuck up.”
Her lips purse and a tinge of both fear and thrill seep into her eyes.
It should only be fear at this point, because my plans for her exceed anything I’ve done before.
18
ANNIKA
This night is the definition of chaos.
It started with me being a little mad.
Well, not mad—upset. A little bit sad, too.
So I went to the club because I was trying my hardest to stop being so upset.
Did it work?
Partially. Okay, no, it didn’t. Not really.
My mood became gloomier after the text exchange, but I danced and drank to forget about it. The icing on the cake was Creighton actually showing up to a club—shocker, I know—to stake a claim on me in public. Again.
My lips still tingle from his punishing kiss, from the way he devoured me whole and left me no room to breathe.
Or think straight.
Or remember that I’m actually slightly wounded by him.
After he gave me coffee to sober up, the car ride has been spent in utter silence. Every time I’ve tried to speak, he casts me a glare, and if I insist, he adds to the ‘punishments’ count.
He reached four before I gave up, crossed my arms, and stared out the window.
Because screw him.
He’s the reason I’ve been in this mood and even needed a venting outlet. I’m simply not going to feel bad about that.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in Creigh’s Range Rover. He used to drive a Porsche, but a week ago, I complained that it was too small when he told me to sit on his lap, so he changed it two days later.
When I asked him if he had anything to tell me, like maybe he did it for me, the heartless idiot only said, “It’s nothing. This is an old gift from my favorite grandfather, Agnus.”
On good days, Creighton is cold, but on bad days, like today, he’s no different than the ice of the Arctic Ocean.
The car slows to a halt in front of a giant mansion’s gate that resembles my brother’s.
This is the first time I’ve been here, but I can already tell it’s the Elites’ compound.
The black metal gates open and Creighton drives inside, passing a well-manicured lawn until we reach the circular driveway.
The building is nothing short of a regal castle, definitely less gothic than the Heathens’， and reeks of the powerful old money the entire REU is made of.
“Get out.” Creighton’s voice is deadpan, almost lifeless, and that causes my skin to crawl.
I’m probably sober if I can be assaulted by feelings this way.
As soon as he steps out of his car, I unbuckle my seatbelt and stumble outside. I only had like two drinks and I’m obviously a lightweight, because that was enough to get me tipsy.
But I’m not anymore and something else has been keeping me on edge.
Or, more specifically, someone.
“Follow me.” Creighton starts in the direction of the huge front door.
“Can you stop dishing out orders?”