He had my Ruger in his hand.
“I thought you might be missing me.” I gave him a little shrug, out of my holster. I set it and the Sig Sauer on the pillow beside me.
“Why would you think that?” Sage’s voice cracked, but he didn’t move from the doorway.
I swallowed. “Because I missed you.”
“What?” he croaked.
“I missed you, even though you drink your coffee too sweet and have a habit of stealing my clothes.”
“I’d been shot,” he said.
“That doesn’t explain why you’re still wearing my shirt.”
Sage looked down, like the news was a surprise to him.
“I can take it off,” he rasped.
“Good.”
He took off my shirt and dropped it at his feet. Something must have clicked for him, because as soon as the shirt hit the floor, he started to move. He stalked toward me, tossing the gun onto the pile and flipping open the button of his fly. He climbed on the bed, climbed on top of me, then he froze.
With one hand braced against either side of my head, he dipped down, pressing our foreheads together. He breathed heavy, chest heaving…and I knew.
I knew.
“This is a disaster waiting to happen,” he exhaled, the warning hot and true against my mouth.
He was right.
He was so right, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t be bothered. Somehow, between the weekend in the cabin and that exact moment, Sage Rosetti had wiggled his way into my heart. I didn’t know the how or why of it, and I wasn’t going to stop and think about it. There were a handful of facts that were irrefutable, and that would have to be enough.
Sage understood what it was like to have the kind of life I had because it was his life too, whether he wanted it or not. He knew the obligations, the expectations, the hours…the risk. Sage was a man who could handle me at my best and my worst, who wouldn’t begrudge me for taking leave or not answering questions. I never thought I could find a match because I’d never found someone like Sage.
“I know,” I agreed, “but I can’t get enough of you.”
My safeword floated between us, caught in the silence and held in context. I meant what I said, and judging by the way Sage’s nostrils flared, he understood. He adjust his weight and reached for my shirt, making quick work of the buttons and shoving it open.
I tried my best to hide the way the rough motion made me wince, but he caught the expression and stilled, eyes narrowing.
“What have you been up to since I left?” he asked.
“Not much,” I said. “Trying to figure out who wants me dead.”
“You?”
“And Ronan.”
“I know about him,” Sage said. His fingers plucked at the edge of my shirt, rubbing the material between his fingers.
“How?”
“He told me.” Sage dipped his head and caught my eye from beneath the fan of his dark lashes. “I couldn’t find you, so I found him.”
“Right.” I made a mental note to call Ronan and rip him a fucking new one for being so accessible when I had clearly told him he needed to exhibit caution.
“Who wants you dead?” Sage asked. He pulled at the shirt and I wiggled my shoulders to shrug it off. The collar caught on the white bandage wrapped around my left arm and Sage’s eyes immediately went to the gauze-covered wound.
