She leaned in close, examining the bite mark. He hadn't broken the skin, but it looked ugly. It made her feel warm. She turned around, looking over her shoulder, trying to see her butt. There was no bruising, but one side was distinctly redder than the other. Her back also had red marks going down its length. Jameson had sharp claws. When she turned to the front again, she could see bruise lines forming at the tops of her thighs – she had known those would show up. She then got right up against the mirror, looking over her jaw. She had smacked the desk pretty good, but no marks. That was good. She liked it rough, but she didn't like walking around with a black eye. People asked too many questions.

She tip toed back in to the bedroom, and saw that Jameson was still asleep. She watched him for a moment. His hair was rumpled and cute, his arms akimbo to his head, hands clasped under a cheek. His position made the muscles in his broad shoulders bunch and come together, and she chewed on her bottom lip, tempted to scratch him awake.

She didn't, opting to find her underwear instead. She found her bra hanging from the side of a mirror and quickly slipped it on; she decided her underwear was a lost cause and threw them away. She was shimmying back in to her dress when she heard the covers rustle around.

“Sneaking out, baby girl?” Jameson spoke, his voice scratchy with sleep. Tate chuckled.

“No, I would've woken you up to say goodbye,” she replied, struggling with the zipper on her back. Once she had it all the way up, she looked at him. He had pulled himself in to a sitting position against the headboard, hands behind his head. His piercing blue eyes were traveling over every inch of her.

“Ah, but who told you that you could leave?” he asked. She laughed and walked over to the bed.

“I didn't realize I needed permission,” she responded, kneeling on the mattress and making her way to his side.

“You need to ask permission for everything.”

“Probably not gonna happen, Jameson,” she laughed, sitting back on her heels. He sighed and dropped his hands.

“Well at least we broke you of one bad habit. I swear, your mouth must get you in to so much trouble. Very defiant, baby girl. If I had to hear you say 'Kane' one more time,” he didn't finish the thought, just sucked air through his teeth.

“I don't see what the big deal is – pretty much everyone else calls you Kane,” she pointed out. He leaned forward.

“You're not 'everyone else', you're different. You get to see the real me,” he told her.

Her heart leapt in her chest. She was different to him, she got to see the real him. Too much info. She didn't know whether to jump for joy, or head for the hills. Ang had told her to be careful, and she had laughed at him. She should have heeded his warning a little better.

“Well, I'll have to see the 'real you' later – I have to go,” Tate laughed. Jameson narrowed his eyes.

“Why?”

“Because, it's almost eleven o'clock. I have to go home, run some errands, shower, get ready for work. I work at the bar Thursday through Saturday,” she explained. He nodded and yawned, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Right, right, the shit hole. I'll be in Manhattan this weekend, but I'll be back Sunday. I'll call you,” he told her.

“Ooohhh, Manhattan weekend. Lifestyles of the rich and the famous,” she teased. He rolled his eyes.

“There's that mouth. Hold on, I'll have Sanders get the car,” he said, leaning over and grabbing a phone that was next to the bed.

While Jameson barked orders at poor Sanders, Tate did her best to wipe away the makeup that was under her eyes. She could go in to the bathroom and wet a towel, but it was too much effort. She didn't want to move away from him until she had to go. She swept her hair up in to a ponytail just as he was hanging up the phone.

“Poor Sanders, I don't think you're very nice to him,” she commented, pouting out her bottom lip. Jameson reached out and pinched it.

“It works for us,” he replied, running the edge of his thumb along her bottom teeth.

“Where did you find him?” she asked, when he let his fingers trace over her lip and down the side of her jaw.

“London,” he answered, his fingers moving down to her throat.

“Is that the accent he has? Didn't seem British,” she commented. Jameson nodded, his fingers moving around the edge of his bite mark, which was just barely peeking out the side of her collar.

“It's not originally where he's from, but it's where I found him. He was trying to steal from me,” he continued, pushing the material to the side and leaning close so he could examine the wound.

“Steal from you!?”

“Yeah. He was thirteen, a pickpocket. A bad one. Probably about a week away from collapsing. I admired his tenacity. He's been with me ever since,” Jameson finished the story, smoothing her dress back in to place.

“How old is he now?”

“Twenty.”

“Wow. That's crazy, I thought he -,”

“Tate,” Jameson interrupted, his hand going to her neck and cupping the back of it. “You're obsessed with other people, I swear.”

“Says the man who stalked me to get me here,” she countered. He snorted.

“I didn't hear you complaining last night.”

“You wouldn't have listened, even if I did.”

“You're okay with all this? You're not running away to hide from me?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her. Tate laughed.