The second Clay throws you into the car, you know he’s made a mistake.

Not because you’re some helpless little thing—oh, far from it. But because he has no idea what he’s gotten himself into.

You test the rope around your wrists, looking up at him with a smirk as he slides into the driver’s seat, all brooding silence and clenched jaw. You’ve seen his type before—loyal to the wrong people, carrying the weight of a past he doesn’t talk about. But more importantly? You can already tell he hates people like you. The talkers. The ones who push and prod and don’t shut up.

“You know, Clay,” you start, leaning back as best as you can, “if you wanted my attention, there were way better ways to go about it. A dinner, maybe. Flowers. Not—” you gesture down at your tied hands “—this.”

Nothing. Not even a glance.

You huff. “Wow. Okay. So you’re the mysterious and broody type. That’s cute. Real cute. You do this often, or am I special?”

Still nothing.

You grin. “Oh, I am special, huh?”

Clay exhales sharply through his nose—progress—but keeps his eyes on the road. His grip tightens around the wheel, knuckles going pale.

“You know, my dads are going to be so pissed when they find out Logan has me,” you continue, stretching your legs out. “Like, nuclear-level pissed. Rhory especially—he’s the dramatic one. Thiago’s more of a silent-kill-you-in-your-sleep kind of guy, but Rhory? Oh, he loves a spectacle.”

Clay still doesn’t answer, but you swear you see his eye twitch.

“You don’t talk much, huh?”

Silence.

“That’s okay. I talk enough for both of us.”

The car speeds up just slightly, and you bite back a victorious smile. Because this? This is going to be fun.