“sure thing” smile and then bought what she wanted anyway. He soon gave up.

She hadn’t been able to resist asking questions like, “Do these jeans make my ass look big?” and “Does this skirt make my calves look fat?”

Sheer and utter horror had flashed across his face every time, as if he’d sensed that there might not be a right answer. Each time, however, he would say, “No, baby, you look beautiful, you should definitely buy that,” which of course could be translated into “Please get me out of this f**king store.” Just when she’d thought he’d forgotten about his “condition,” he’d informed her that they had one more place to go before collecting Dominic at the tattoo studio. She hadn’t for one second suspected that he meant a car dealership. Why would she? Normal people didn’t go and spend more than twenty thousand dollars on a girl they had only been seeing for, like, two minutes.

Okay, she could admit to herself that she seriously liked the silver Chevy Captiva, but damn it, that wasn’t the point. She shook her head at him. “Dante—”

He fisted a hand in her hair. “It’s important to me that you’re safe, and as much as I’d rather chauffeur you everywhere, my job is too demanding for that. Plus, I know that would make you feel suffocated, and then you’d get pissed at me all the time. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” she admitted.

He released her hair and smoothed it out. “I’m not good at relationships, baby. Most likely because I haven’t been in one since I was eighteen years old. The ones before Laurie weren’t serious.

I get that I’m going to mess up often, especially when I get all controlling and overprotective. This car is a compromise—I get to know that you’re not driving that tin can that you’ve been insisting we get fixed, and you get to have your independence. Okay, you get to have some of it. For it to be a compromise, you have to meet me halfway here.”

He really was trying, she suddenly realized. It wasn’t often you could get a controlling person to make any kind of compromise about anything. What bothered her was how expensive this compromise was.

Reading her mind, he said, “It’s just money, Jaime. I have plenty of it, and I want to spend some of it on someone who matters to me.” Trey—like most Alphas—had hands in many pies, and it was Dante who had educated him on business. He had investments of his own that had all paid off, and he wasn’t one for splurging. But with Jaime it was different. He wanted to buy her things, wanted to spoil her in the way that her parents had never been able to when she was younger. “Is that really so awful?”

His soft, cajoling tone almost had her saying no without thought. She knew he could afford it, but that wasn’t her point. “If I accept this now, you’ll try to buy me other expensive stuff, too.”

“No, baby, I won’t try to do that. I will do that. But I’ll do that even if you don’t accept it.” Ignoring her groan, he gently turned her so that she was facing the vehicle and curled his arms around her. He whispered into her ear, “You know you want it, Jaime. I know you want it. I heard you once before say you love the new-car smell. I can’t wait to christen it. You can ride me in the front seat. Up and down, up and down, up and down on my c**k until—”

“You’re such a goddamn jerk!”

Ignoring her attempt to wriggle out of his arms, he laughed, relishing the scent of her arousal.

“Ready to drive your new SUV to the tattoo studio?”

A sizzle of excitement and anticipation ran through her. Sure, she was still a little uncomfortable with him buying something this expensive for her, but she also knew that this was more than just a gift to him. This was an effort to make their relationship work, even if it was a strange method. Although his overprotective streak had the potential to drive her crazy, she didn’t want to change him. She cared for him just as he was, and she understood that in order for this to work, she would occasionally have to accommodate his weird ways. “Don’t think this means you’ll get your way all the time, Popeye.”

He grinned against her nape. “Never would I think that.” His grin totally disappeared when he realized what her idea of driving was. “You’re going to get us killed! Slow down!”

“Oh, live a little, will you,” she said. “I’m only doing eighty.”

“You’re going one hundred and ten miles per hour!”

“Sure, if you want to get technical about it.”

His heart missed a beat when she barely dodged a pedestrian. “Slow the hell down, Jaime, or I swear I’ll shove you in the backseat and do the driving myself!”

“Okay, Grandma, we’re slowing, happy now?” She rolled her eyes at his thunderous scowl.

“I’ll even slow down enough that Tao can catch up, okay?” The scowl was still on Dante’s face when she parked the SUV ten minutes later. “Are you regretting giving it to me yet?” He growled at her amused smirk. “No, but I’m seriously rethinking the idea of letting you chauffeur yourself. Develop a better sense of self-preservation fast.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Growling again, he exited the vehicle and opened the driver’s door. She was still wearing that goddamn smirk. At least she’d given up arguing about her ability to let herself out of cars and was indulging him in this. Caging her wrist with his hand, he led her into the studio, ignoring the amused looks that Shaya and the guys were wearing inside the safety of the Toyota.

Dante was surprised by the interior of the studio. He’d expected either a medical, biker, or Zen look. The place was like an art gallery, slash record store. It was very clean and had a calming, welcoming feel, and Dante had to wonder if the latter was because of a little magick, since the people who worked there were, in fact, witches. The accelerating healing that came with being a shifter made it nearly impossible to be tattooed. Witches, however, were able to tattoo shifters effectively.

He wasn’t sure whether it was because they enchanted the ink or because they, too, were preternatural beings.

On the walls were framed photographs of amazing tattoos—the kind that would make you want a tattoo yourself even if you hadn’t thought about it until then. There were, all in all, six tattoo artists at work, and all spared them only the briefest glance, totally focused on what they were doing.

Dominic, who was speaking—well, flirting—with the blushing receptionist, held up his index finger, gesturing that he’d be one minute. Jaime sighed and rolled her eyes. Typical.