“You give me some fucking credit.”

My shoulders tense. What’s the matter with this woman and her foul language? “Mouth!” I yell, wondering what the hell my problem is. Hearing such harsh words fall from those lovely lips is really rubbing me up the wrong way. Something so beautiful—so pure—shouldn’t be swearing, and especially not at me.

“I told you to leave,” she repeats, dragging me back to the present.

“And I told you, look me in the eye and tell me you don’t want me.” I stare at her, watching for any sign of a falter.

“I don’t want you,” she says quietly, but she’s not avoiding my eyes. No, she’s glaring at me, completely resolute.

“I don’t believe you.” I catch her fiddling fingers shifting quickly from her hair. She’s lying, she has to be.

“You should,” she affirms, a cold sheen glazing her dark eyes only strengthening her order.

Pain sears me.

We’re staring at each other, her jaw clenched, her expression resolute, me doubting myself—doubting all my thoughts and assumptions. Because no woman in the last two decades has said no to me. And I don’t know how to handle it.

I run my sweaty hand through my mess of hair, but frustration overrides my disbelief and anger sets in. Red-hot anger. And if I don’t leave now, she’ll see a side of me I’m not familiar or comfortable with.

But this isn’t done. I just need to restock on some calm and energy because this woman is draining me, and I’m about to lose my shit completely with her.

I stalk out of her house, slamming the door behind me and throwing the disposable phone to the ground with all the force I can muster in an attempt to dispel some of my fury. I stand, my body heavy, fighting to get my ragged breathing under control, and slowly turn, looking up at the house, feeling in my trouser pocket. Her keys. I pull them out and play with them for a few moments, before shaking my head and walking back to post them through the letterbox.

I pull out my other phone and start pacing down the street, dialing the big guy to come get me. “We have a problem,” he says in answer.

“What?”

“You could call it a domestic, I suppose.”

He doesn’t need to say anymore. “Coral and Mike.” I need this like I need a hole in my fucking head.

“Yeah. Sarah’s tried calling you. Probably best you don’t turn up at The Manor and add to the prickly mix.”

For fuck’s sake. “We need to get rid of one of them.” Because as long as they’re both members, there will be constant clashes.

“You had your chance,” John reminds me, and I roll my eyes.