Page 52 of Nash

Usually, I love our walks. They’re kind of romantic.

But not today, Satan.

How dare he? Why won’t he tell me? How dare Nash prioritize his “brothers” over me?

Would I do the same if Blair were involved? Well, that’s not pertinent to this conversation.

Next question.

“Vale,” he growls, taking two stairs at a time as I race up the ones outside my apartment. “Don’t you dare enter without me clearing.”

“Clear this.” I’ve been using my middle finger a lot today.

But when I reach my apartment’s white wooden door, it doesn’t feel right. I’ve gotten so used to holding onto Nash’s shoulder while he clears my place. I love feeling his tense muscles, his raised temperature, the wall of his hard body, and his dark gun protecting me.

It’s instinct; I need him.

Besides, as I let him proceed and hold his right shoulder, it’s the only thing keeping my fingers from gouging his eyeballs out.

“Clear,” he says before he turns on my lamp. “And we need to talk.”

“I’m sorry.” I march toward my bathroom. “There must be a mouse in your pocket because there is nowe. There’s me, and then there’s you and your Bratva brothers. Or wait, no, you’re right, you are Bratvabeasts.”

“Listen to me!” he shouts, so I whip around in the doorway, angrily grabbing the door. “Donotprovoke us. Don’tevergo in that room.”

“You know,” I tilt my head, “they need to make doors so you only have to talk to the people you like. Oh, hang on. They do.” I slam it in his face.

Dickhead.

Really beautiful, thick dickhead.

God, why does he have to be hung like a stallion? And even if he weren’t, his fingers and tongue and that dirty, erotic mouth of his make my pussy want to call a cease-fire.

Just long enough for her to get a fix.

Then it’s back to war.

Instead, I take a nice long shower. No, I don’t get myself off because I’m too mad. But yes, I use all the hot water.

Wrapped in a white robe and turban, I leave the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

Nash is propped up on my bed, reading my annotated copy ofHow To Piss Off Men.When he sees me clock it, he asks, “Where’d you buy this? The Banshees R’ Us Bookstore? I bet you’re their best customer.”

“I can’t hear you.” I storm across the room. “I stopped talking to you an hour ago.”

“Send the memo to your moving lips.”

“Okay, Boomer. No one writes memos anymore.”

“No one, aka especially you, will enter that room on the third floor of Delta’s, either.”

“Uh-huh. I’m really known for doing what men say. Super reliable. Iron-clad guarantee. Don’t you worry. I’ll be a good little girl.”

“I’ll fucking make sure of it,” he threatens before slowly rising and stripping naked, taunting me to watch, and I do. With a yawn.

So he smirks and disappears into the bathroom.

A few minutes later, I’m laughing my ass off because all I hear is, “God. Fucking. Dammit, Vale! This is cold!”

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