“Yeah, well. That’s why there’s nothin’ clean, ain’t it?” He's got a hand in the pan of food she's cooking before she can even slap it away. When she inevitably rounds on him, it's already gone, no evidence but his cheeky smile that any crime had occurred at all. "Too many people in this house."

It's lighthearted enough, but only half in jest. If Cash had it his way, he'd have no one else in the house at all, save from Hannah and himself. A good thing they have so much property: the 3,000 square foot home and surrounding acreage houses more than twelve lycans, at any given moment, and it's impossible to kick any of them out. For one thing, more than a few of them are their own children.

He's reacted better to getting shot. It should say something about him, that he handles violence without flinching, but that kindness is what truly rattles him. Love. The fuck did he know of it? If anyone's directed that word at him before, it's been lost to memory. There's no place for it in this life he's fabricated, built off a foundation of hardship and bitter lies. In fact, he's done his utmost to make sure that this, right here? It would never happen. He wanted no part of love; he never had use for it.

The problem, obviously, was pretty simple: Cash had wanted her, and to hell with the consequences. This was the consequence. Her, looking at him like maybe he can understand, like he's about to take what she's offering -- something so goddamn delicate that he'd break it the second it's put in his hands. ( Her heart. ) He doesn't want it. He doesn't want this. Why the fuck did she have to fall in love with him? The irritation prickles, spiny, but it's no one's fault more than himself. From the first day he met her planetside, he'd known what she was, told her as much aloud: a good girl. A mess of one at the moment, sure, but the kind of girl who never belonged with him. And he'd been playing for fire ever since, because girls like this? They didn't just want a fuck. They wouldn't be content with a fling.

He should've turned right on his heel the moment he saw her again in that bar.

A palm drags itself over his face. She's waiting for him to say something, probably -- as if he knows how to respond to that. As it is, he doesn't even meet her eyes. The fragile peace woven as they lay in bed is shattered, and he gets to his feet, throwing on clothes with careless haste. Some part of him -- that he's not gonna acknowledge now, or ever -- can feel the wrongness of it all, but the rest of him is focused on just one thing: flee.

"I gotta go." He's still pulling his jacket on as he makes for the doorway, pausing within. What an asshole. He doesn't need to turn to feel her heartbreak, the wide eyes watching his retreating back. Damned as he is, forsaken, he swears that the remnants of his tattered heart give way completely at that. A thumb taps against the doorframe. Once, twice. And then he shoves emotion aside, door opening, framing him with light.

"See you around."

It's been a long night. They're stumbling, glitzed as fuck, drunk off their ass, through the kind of side alleys that most people knew better to avoid -- and that Cash seemed to frequent. Get high enough and you feel bulletproof; you forget the threats that lingering in shadows, waiting for you to be off your game, mouth and hands and thoughts consumed with the woman next to you. And fuck, but Annie is distracting. She's making the kind of sounds he loves, that take hardly any effort to draw out. Teeth at her ear. Palm on her thigh. She's breathless, giggles punctuated by a sharp intake of breath, a low, needy moan --

Something tickles the back of his neck. It's the kind of premonition you learn on the streets, if you wanna avoid a knife to the back. There's only the soft gasp as he turns her, shoves her against the wall, a noise of pain he's only half aware of. His senses are all redirecting to the palpable threat at his back, and the shock of pain that carves a clean path to his ribs.

His, though. Not hers. There's a half a breath, frozen in time, when he pulls away sharply to look at her: eyes wide, lips parted, scared but not hurt -- and then he's stepping in front of her, time snapping back in place again. Rage is a molten heat in his bones. It peels lips away from his teeth, grit as he unceremoniuosly tears the blade free. There's no time to feel anything hurt right now. Adrenaline works better than any painkiller could when fight time has kicked in, and that's exactly where he is right now. Fingers grip the handle. Three on one? Could be worse. And the low level asshole who sells stims on his street is about to wish he brought more guys with him.

Without turning, he gestures for Annie to leave. Can't fight with her there. Can't spare the attention, not when his focus is sharpened, honed, with deadly intent on the men before him.

GOOD, he thinks. You shouldn't. The words don't hit like a punch in the gut, maybe because he already knew. He's a bad influence. He's dragging her down. All he's gotta do is give her a smile and she gets weak kneed and pliant and softening in his hands. It's fuckin' dangerous, is what it is: he's hoping she's not like this with anyone else, because fuck knows there's worse guys in this universe than him.

Doesn't make him a good one, though. Because even if he knows what's right, doesn't mean he's gonna do it. Should be ashamed at the way he leans in, gives a grin, one hand snaking around her waist.