Page 88 of Hunt Me, Daddy
The word custody hit low and hot and absolutely unacceptable.
My body, the idiot, liked it.
My brain immediately filed an objection.
“Your custody,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“You understand I am not evidence in a police procedural.”
“You are much harder to manage than evidence.”
“Correct.”
“And much more valuable.”
That stopped me. Not because it was romantic. It wasn’t. Ivan made valuable sound like someone important he would defend with knives and mathematics.
“I don’t belong to you,” I said.
The silence on the line was tense for a long moment. When he answered, his voice was lower.
“Not yet.”
Every inch of me went still.
“Ivan,” I warned.
“Come downstairs, Kit.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I come up.”
My pulse slammed once.
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
“What do you call that?”
“A statement of logistics.”
I almost laughed. I didn’t, though, because rewarding him felt dangerous.
“I have questions,” I said.
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“No.”
“I have gear.”
“Pack what you can carry in one bag. Your laptop. Essential drives. ID. Medication if any. No more than five minutes.”
