Oh, no, she wasn’t getting away with that. He pointedly glanced down at her ankle. “Really? You want to rethink that? There’s a stiff penalty for lying.”
“My ankle is sore, but only because I’m walking too fast on it on an uneven surface. Which I wouldn’t be if you hadn’t taken my bike!”
“And I took that bike from you to stop you from getting hurt!” he snapped back at her.
“So I have to communicate everything I’m thinking or feeling with you and you get to give me the silent treatment?”
“What are you talking about? What silent treatment?”
“Before.” She waved her hand back down the road. “You wouldn’t talk to me. I had enough of that before. I’m too old and life is too short for petty games. I won’t play them.”
Right. Seemed she wasn’t the only one who needed to work on communication.
“Molly, I wasn’t giving you the silent treatment. I promise.”
Her gaze narrowed, but she wasn’t turning away from him.
“I have a few things I need to tell you, but first I want you sitting and off that foot, all right?”
After a few seconds, she nodded, and he quickly swung her up into his arms.
“Hey! You could warn a girl.”
“I don’t think so.” He reached the car and gently set her down before opening the passenger door. She sat down, but he grabbed her legs before she could swing them in. “I want to look at your ankle.”
“It’s f—” she bit the word off, obviously remembering his order.
He hid a smile. “Just as well you stopped yourself. Every time I hear that phrase, I’m giving you ten.”
“I’m confused,” she told him as he carefully took off her shoe. She was wearing a pair of lightweight, canvas sneakers. Not at all something she should wear while riding a motorcycle, but he bit back his reprimand. That wasn’t going to help. This wasn’t about her footwear. This wasn’t even really about the motorcycle. It was about her safety in general. If she was his . . . his training sub then she had to learn he expected her to look after herself, or else he would.
“I know, kitten. We need to have a talk.” He clicked his tongue as he stared down at her puffy ankle. He prodded it gently. She winced.
“Fine, huh? Doesn’t exactly look that way. I thought Doc said it was better.”
“It is better. It didn’t feel this bad last night.”
“What made you think it was a good idea to ride a motorcycle with an injured ankle?”
“You’re angry about me riding the bike while my ankle is still healing?” she asked.
He sighed. “I’m not angry, Molly.”
“Could have fooled me.”
“I was scared.”
There was silence. He glanced up from his crouched position to find her staring down at him in surprise. “Scared? You? But . . . you . . .”
“Yes?”
“I don’t get it. Why are you scared?”
“Because I care about you, Molly. I know our contract mainly covers play in the club, but I can’t turn off my feelings for you just because we’re no longer at Saxons. And once I claimed you I became responsible for you while you’re living in Haven.”
“I don’t know if I want anyone to be responsible for me,” she muttered.
He reached up and brushed her hair back. “But someone has been responsible for you since you arrived. You just didn’t realize it. And you read that clause about safety. You knew it went beyond just play.”