Elle Thorpe

“Lacey.”

I stiffened at the voice behind me.

It wasn’t the one I’d wanted to hear. I didn’t turn around. “What do you want, Colt?’

“To talk.”

I sighed.

“Please.”

Well, that was new. “I’m shocked you even know the meaning of that word. Who knew you had manners?”

Colt remained stoically silent.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. Talk.”

“Turn around. I’m not talking to the back of your head.”

“Then go away.”

A low growl came from his chest, and then suddenly his fingers were digging into my hips. He moved around me so quickly I didn’t even have time to work out what was happening, and then he’d hoisted me up and over his shoulder, like I was a goddamn sack of potatoes. His shoulder pressed into my belly, stealing my breath, and I dangled down his back, my center of gravity too far over to pull myself back up. Damn my lack of core strength.

“Colt,” I yelled, thumping a fist against his back. “Put me down!”

But he was having none of it. He strode down a hallway off the main room, took a sharp left into what looked to be a guest bedroom, and kicked the door shut behind us.

“What? I asked nicely to talk to you. You wouldn’t.”

“So a normal response is to toss the person ignoring you over your shoulder and lock her in a room?”

He shrugged. “You’re talking to me now, aren’t you?”

“Not by choice.” I pushed to my feet, my anger boiling. “You’re so self-centered!” I stormed to the doorway he was blocking, but he didn’t budge. “Move.”

“No.”

“Colt.” There was a warning in my tone