Page 41 of Silver Fox Puck

And then, his voice—low, steady, lethal.

"You have no idea how complicated I can be, Flight."

Oh.

Oh, hell.

The words sink into my skin, hot and insidious, twisting through me before I can stop them.

It’s not just what he said—it’s how.

Like a promise.

Like a warning.

Like he already knows exactly how this is going to go.

And that? That should piss me off.

I should roll my eyes. I should shoot back some sharp retort. I should throw down my napkin, grab my beer, and make some dramatic exit just to prove a point.

But I don’t.

I can’t. My throat’s too dry. My skin’s too hot. And all I can hear is him—looping, low, impossible to ignore.

I force myself to blink, to shake it off, to remember that I’m supposed to be winning this game, not drowning in it.

I straighten, pick up my beer, and take a long, slow sip.

When I set it back down, I meet his gaze again—level, unreadable.

"You’re going to have to try harder than that, Silver Fox."

His mouth curves.

And that’s when I know—

I just lost.

I need to get out of here. Not forever. Not in some dramatic, storm-out-of-the-restaurant, flipping-him-the-bird kind of way. Just… for a minute. A second to breathe, to stop thinking about how goddamn good he looks sitting across from me.

A second to stop hearing his voice in my head, that low, deliberate warning replaying on a loop.

"You have no idea how complicated I can be, Flight."

I gulp.

I reach for my beer, but my hand doesn’t quite make it.

Instead of drinking, I push back my chair.

The legs scrape against the floor, too loud, too sudden, but I don’t care.

I need space. I need distance.

Jake glances at me. "Where you going?"

"Bar," I say, already turning. "Need another drink."

---