“Excuse me,” I hear Ava say sweetly, and yet the eejit blabbers on at me to the point I could quite easily reach across my car, grab him by the scruff of the neck, and yank him in before smashing his face against the steering wheel. But I can’t do that.

“For fuck’s sake.” I get out and stomp around the front of my Aston, pleased to see him finally backing off when I meet him on the pavement. That’s better. I open the door and help a quiet Ava into the seat. “Have a good fucking day,” I mutter as I pass him, falling back behind the wheel and roaring away.

“They’re just doing a job, you know,” Ava says quietly, and I laugh on the inside. So was I. And this morning my job is to get her to work on time.

“Power-hungry failures who didn’t make cops,” I reply, peeking across at her, finally getting my moment to absorb her. Her face is fresh and free from makeup, although that looks like it’s going to change. She’s pulled the sun visor down to get to the mirror. She doesn’t need makeup. She doesn’t need clothes. She doesn’t need work. “You look lovely.”

“Watch the road,” she says over a laugh, dabbing at her face. “Oh, Sam said he can’t make your run.”

“Lazy bastard,” I mutter, returning my attention to the road. I pull around a slowing cab, frowning. “He’s still there, then?”

“He’s got Kate tied to the bed,” she says, and I recoil, flicking my eyes across the car. She sounds completely unfazed by that as she applies some eye makeup. I slow down a little while she’s holding a stick so close to her eyes.

“Probably,” I muse, grimacing, wondering where that word came from. I look out the corner of my eye, seeing Ava frozen, her mouth agape. I quickly look away.

“You don’t sound shocked.”

“That’s because I’m not.” What the fuck is wrong with my mouth right now? Why am I feeding her curiosity?

Her teeth sink into her lip, her mind clearly racing. Lord, if she’s struggling to get her head around a bit of rope play, her mind might explode if I share more. “I don’t want to know,” she eventually says, returning to the mirror to finish her makeup.

“No, you don’t.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I reach for her knee and take hold, siphoning off some willpower and strength to get me through my morning. “So what have you planned for the day?”

“Work,” she answers dryly, flipping the mirror back up. I give her knee a squeeze in warning, and she laughs over a yelp, grabbing my hand.

“Sarcasm,” I say, and she sighs, settling back. “Well?”