Chapter 70: HANS: Chapter 71

I absently trace my thumbs back and forth on Hans’s hand.

I can accept that I have no idea what’s going on, but clearly, I’ve found myself in the middle of something.

Everything I’ve overheard rolls around in my mind as we quickly drive toward the faint lights of downtown Minneapolis off in the distance.

I couldn’t find my way back to where we just were if I tried. But considering Hans called it a kill house, and that Karmine woman basically told Hans to get away from it quickly, that’s probably for the best.

I also think about Karmine’s comment about Hans being back home.

I decide to just ask. “That was you in Mexico, right?”

I look up and watch Hans work his jaw for a moment before he sighs. “That was me.”

“And you just so happened to be there? In the same city as me. Right behind our bus. Even though you made no mention of going on such a trip when you dropped me off at the airport?”

His fingers flex around mine. “Yeah, well, I told you to be careful.”

“Me?!” Indignation fills my chest. “How much more careful could I have been? I was sitting on a bus.”

“Sitting on a bus in one of the most dangerous cities in the world.”

I toss my hands up. “That was for⁠—”

“Don’t,” Hans snaps.

I think he’s yelling at me for arguing with him, but his hand darts up to grab mine. Then he forcefully presses my palm into his thigh. Making me touch him.

His don’t was because I let go of his hand.

God, he really is crazy.

I squeeze his thigh.

Maybe I’m a little bit crazy too.

“That was for work,” I try again, saying it calmly.

“You shouldn’t have gone.” He still sounds so upset.

“I didn’t have a choice. It was a mandatory meeting.”

“There’s always a choice, Cassandra.”

“Oh?” I try to cross my arms, but Hans still has my hand closest to him trapped against his thigh. “And what was your choice? You killed those guys on that bus pretty easily.”

“You’re already at two. Don’t push me.”

Heat blooms in my core as I remember him dragging me across the seat earlier.

His punishments are not punishments. So I keep pushing.

“You have your own body bags. That’s not normal, Hans.”

“I never pretended to be normal.”

I slide a look up at him. “You told my parents you were a health inspector.”

Hans glances at me. “Health inspectors aren’t normal.”

I press my lips together to keep from smiling. “Did you just make a joke?”

“I’m deadly serious.”

The click of the blinker fills the car as Hans merges onto another highway. We’re back around actual traffic now, with Minneapolis looming in front of us.

Hans squeezes my hand, then lets it go. “Will you grab the backpacks from the back seat?”

I have to release my seat belt to turn and reach them. And as soon as it clicks open, Hans hooks his arm around my waist. Like if we got into an accident now, he’d keep me in place just through sheer will.

The backpacks look nearly identical. The only difference is that one has a small orange tag attached to the top handle.

I set them both on the seat next to me, and he points to the one without the tag.

Instead of handing it to him, I unzip it. “What do you need?”

“My shirt.”

I look back at him and the black T-shirt he’s wearing, noticing the shoulder holster with two guns I’d somehow forgotten about.

“Is your shirt dirty?” I ask, thinking maybe he got some dead guy stuff on it.

My mouth pulls into a frown. That’d be gross.

“No, just need a costume change.”

“Costume?”

Instead of replying, Hans lifts one knee until it’s pressed on the underside of the steering wheel, holding it in place, then uses both hands to remove his shoulder holster.

“Oh my god, what are you doing? Let me help.”

Hans sets the holster, guns included, on my lap. Followed by the sheathed knife from his hip.

Then, still driving the truck with his knee as we cruise down a highway that is not empty, he reaches behind himself, grips the collar of his T-shirt, and drags it up over his head.

“Hans!” I reach for the wheel, but it’s unnecessary. We don’t so much as swerve within the lines.

And then he’s shirtless.

And I’m speechless.

He’s so perfect. By not being perfect at all.

Scars. Muscles. Chest hair I want to nuzzle my face against.

Warm fabric hits me in the face, and I catch his shirt as it falls into my lap.

“Rude.” I ball up the material.

“It’s rude to stare.”

I look past Hans to the SUV riding in the lane next to us. And the woman who’s staring across at my topless man and not at the road.

Leaning across Hans, I press my middle finger to the glass.

“Cassandra.”

I lean back into my seat, chastised, but the woman speeds up, so I consider it a win.

Then I look up and see the crooked smile on Hans’s mouth.

“She was looking,” I defend.

He shakes his head, his loose hair fully air-dried and shining in the dim light of streetlamps. “You’re a menace.”

I shrug, then pull his backpack onto my lap. “What shirt?” I push around the pile of dark clothes.

“Here,” he says, reaching into the backpack and pulling out an item by touch.

He’s back to steering with his knee, shaking the shirt out.

It’s a gray button-down, and it’s surprisingly not wrinkled.

I snag a corner and rub it between my fingers. It’s super soft and a little stretchy. Definitely some sort of anti-wrinkle material. Great for people who run around with bags of clothes in their truck.

Hans starts to pull it on.

“Can I at least steer for you?” I ask.

“You can do my buttons.”

I lean out of the way as he stretches his arms to get the shirt to sit on his shoulders correctly.

When he has it how he wants it, Hans grips the steering wheel with his left hand and drapes his right arm across the back of the seat behind me.

Twisting toward him, I grip a button in one hand and the other side of the shirt in the other, then start.

I let my fingers brush over Hans’s skin. And I trace one scar for every button I do, loving the freedom of being able to just touch him like this.

I leave the top two buttons undone.

Fuck, he’s so hot.

Pressing my hand to his chest, I smooth down the row of buttons. But my eyes keep trailing down. To the noticeable bulge at the front of his pants.

“Thank you.” Hans’s voice sounds rougher than usual. Then he nods to the other backpack. “Your turn.”

I switch the bags so the one with the orange tag is closest to me. “My turn for what?”

“Change of clothes.”

I look down at myself. At my bare legs, my shorts hidden beneath the hoodie I clearly stole from someone bigger than me. “Where are we going?”

“The Syndicate.” He says the name of a nice hotel, and I suddenly feel uncomfortable about looking like such a goober.

“Why so fancy?”

“I like their room service.”

A flare of anger hits me. “You take a lot of women there?”

“Cassandra.” He’s back to using his scolding tone, but I’ve flipped past reason.

“What’s in here?” I rip open the zipper of the second backpack and see clothing that definitely doesn’t belong to Hans. “I’m not wearing your stash of skank clothes.”

His head jerks over to look at me.

I’m not used to these waves of awful jealousy. I’ve literally never felt anything like this before.

It’s all consuming.

It’s more than I know what to do with.

“I can’t⁠—”

I was going to say I can’t be reasonable about wearing someone else’s clothes, but the arm on the back of the seat hooks around my shoulders, and Hans presses his hand over my mouth.

“You are going to listen to me for one fucking second before you finish that sentence. The backpack is full of your clothes, Cassandra Lynn. Your actual clothes.” My eyes widen. “I’m a sick fuck. I’ve crossed some pretty big lines when it comes to you. I won’t pretend otherwise. And I never wanted to drag you into the mess that is my life, but I still wanted to have you.” He uses his hold on me to pull me into his side. “I wanted to fucking keep you, Butterfly, from the moment I met you. And on the off chance something like tonight happened, I needed to be prepared. So, yeah, I took a few of your things. But now you have what you need.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “So be a good girl for me and find something to put on. Or don’t.” He shrugs against me. “You’re a beautiful woman. People won’t question what you’re wearing. But I’m a big creepy dude. If I showed up dressed in tactical black, dragging a girl like you behind me, people would assume I’m one of the trafficking assholes I’ve dedicated my life to killing.”

I reach up and gently touch the hand over my mouth.

Hans takes another big breath. “Please don’t ever tell me you can’t.”

Twisting into him, I dislodge his hand and wrap my arms around his body. It’s an awkward way to hug someone. But… I have to do it.

Please don’t ever tell me you can’t.

He thought I was going to say I can’t be with him. That I can’t stay. That I can’t do this.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

The only thing I can’t do is give him up.

For a year, I’ve been dreaming of what it would be like to have his attention. And it turns out I have all of it.

Now I can’t settle for anything less.

Hans presses his arm against my back, holding me to him.

“You’re not creepy.” I sniff into his side. “Even if you were stalking me.”

“It was hardly stalking.” He leans down and presses a kiss to my head.

“You just said that backpack is filled with my clothes.” I try to look up at him.

Hans presses his hand to the back of my head, keeping it against his body. “It was more like watching over you.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“Do you have any idea how many times you left with your back door unlocked? Or fell asleep with your ground floor windows open?”

I bite my lip, thinking of the times I thought I did that but then would wake up to everything locked up tight. I figured I was just losing my memory. “That was you?”

“Or the times you left for work with your hair thing plugged in.”

“Hair thing?” I try to lift my head again, but he doesn’t let me. “My blow dryer?”

“Yeah, that.” Our bodies shift together as he takes an exit. “It’s a miracle you made it into adulthood.”

“Hey!”

“That gray hair your parents have, I bet that’s all from you.”

“I’m not that bad.” I huff.

“You are,” he argues.

I try to pinch his side, but his body is too firm.

His hand leaves my head, then there’s a smack against my ass, the cheek exposed with the way I’m twisted.

I let out a squeaky sound.

Hans’s hand moves back to my head too quickly for me to sit up.

“Pretty sure the gray hair I have is because of you too,” he gripes.

“Those are probably because you’re so old,” I grumble, feeling defensive.

Another smack to my ass.

“Hans!”

He’s too quick, back to pinning me.

But I know how to play dirty.

I lift my hand like I’m going to try and push myself away from him, but instead, I lower it right over his dick.