She folds her arms over her chest, leaning one shoulder against the wall like she’s bracing for impact. “Okay,” she says. “Lecture away, Agent Broody.”
“This isn’t a lecture,” I say.
A frown dances over her delicate features and disappears. “Then what is it?”
I rake a hand over my face, Kael’s voice still in my ear. Don’t touch her. Don’t make this harder than it already is. Don’t make me choose.
“Last night,” I say. The words feel like glass. “What happened on the couch.”
Her chin tips up a notch. “Yeah,” she says cautiously.
“It can’t happen again.”
There it is. Clean cut.
She blinks. For a second, something raw flashes across her face—embarrassment, maybe. Hurt. Then it shutters, replaced by a brittle sort of calm.
“Okay,” she says. “Message received.”
“That’s it?” I ask, thrown by how fast she puts the shield up.
“What did you expect?” she snaps. “That I’d fall to my knees and sob because the big scary man doesn’t want to kiss me anymore?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what you meant.” Her arms hug herself tighter. “You kissed me. In case your memory’s fuzzy. You didn’t look like you were hating it.”
I don’t have a good answer for that. The memory hits hard and fast—her in my lap, the taste of sugar, the way she’d made that broken little sound into my mouth.
“I didn’t hate it,” I say, because if we’re doing honesty, we’re doing all of it. “That’s the problem.”
She laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Right. Because what’s worse than kissing the girl you’re supposed to be protecting? Liking it.”
“Because I’m not just protecting you,” I grind out. “I’m answerable to Kael. To Brodie. I’m not just some guy you met in a bar, Tallulah. There are rules.”
“There are always rules,” she says. “Rules about where I can go, how I can help, what I’m allowed to know, who I’m allowed to be useful to. This is just one more way I’m a problem to manage.”
“That’s not—”
“You know what?” she cuts in. “Forget it. You don’t owe me an explanation. You’re doing your job. Good for you. I’ll add ‘kiss embargo’ to the list of things I’m not allowed to want right now.”
Her voice cracks on that last word. It guts me.
“This isn’t about you not being allowed to want things,” I say, softer. “It’s about me not being allowed to touch them.”
She pushes off the wall, stepping closer. Close enough that I can see flour still dusted along her jawline, a little streak on her collarbone where she must’ve scratched an itch.
“You already did,” she says quietly. “So what is this really, Bran? You suddenly remembered the HR department? Or somebodyremind you that I’m just the asset and not worth complicating your life over?”
“That’s not—” I bite down so hard my teeth click. “Don’t put fecking words in my mouth.”
“Then say better ones,” she fires back. Her eyes are bright, hot. “Because right now what I’m hearing is ‘I wanted you, I took what I wanted, and now that it’s inconvenient I’m going to pretend it was a mistake.’”
I step into her space before I’ve decided to move.
She doesn’t back up.
My hand finds the wall by her head. The other finds her hip, fingers biting through cotton. Her breath stutters, chest brushing mine.
