He must be on one today, because he doesn’t make it easy. “You know…?”
I glare at him, scornful of the fact he’s playing with me, but Aaron just stands there, waiting, until I release an exasperated breath and state bluntly, “We fucked.”
Then Aaron has the gall to get snarky about it. “Yeah, I remember. I was there.”
“But, like.” I’m still glaring, but now it’s more out of confusion than genuine anger. “You were the one who made a big deal out of it-“
“I didn’t make a big deal out of anything,” Aaron interrupts before I can work myself up into a good tirade, which pisses me off all over again because I love any chance to legitimately rant at people.
“I told you the rules and what would happen if we broke them,” Aaron says without inflection, adding a little shrug of his broad shoulders just to be a bitch. “That’s it.”
What about all the rules you’ve broken for me since then?I don’t ask the question aloud even though I really fucking want to.
When I don’t respond for a while, Aaron takes that as a sign to change the direction of this conversation. Altercation? Whatever we’re calling it.
“How are your injuries?”
Feeling bold, or maybe just frustrated and tired and still mildly pissed off, because I’m always pissed off to some degree at all times, I put my coffee cup down and reach for the bottom of my—Aaron’s—t-shirt. I drag it up and over my head, wincing a little at the burn when the sudden movement tugs at my still somewhat tender wounds.
I drop Aaron’s t-shirt to the kitchen floor and stand back from the counter, holding my arms out slightly.
“You tell me,” I say, smirking at him rakishly. “Do I look all healed up to you, ex-boss?”
Aaron sucks in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring and the dark of his eyes expanding so fast it’s like a black hole growing to tear apart more of the universe around it. His hands turn into fists on the counter, fingers curling up like he’s getting ready to throwa punch. Something in him shifts from controlled to barely tethered, like someone yanked on a loose thread inside him, all that cool, calm consideration unspooling into a chaotic tangle.
He tries to wind it back. “Rohan-“
“Come on,” I interrupt, feeling more than a little reckless myself and blaming him for it entirely, “it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You can touch me if you want. That’s why you brought me here, right? To your fucking family home. The ‘you break it you buy it’ rules apply here, yeah?”
Now he’s pissed, the line between his brows a furious scrunch. “Agent Sathe-“
“Senior Agent North,” I cut in again for the thrill of watching his jaw clench and do that tic-tic-tic thing, “just fucking touch me, ok?“
He growls, frustration evident on his face and it is glorious. “Kid-“
“Aaron,” I rasp, pleading without actually saying please, because if I do then it’ll feel too much like defeat.
Aaron pushes away from the kitchen island and walks around it until he’s standing directly in front of me. His eyes dart down and skate over my naked upper body in a lingering assessment, catching on the mostly healed bullet wounds. He’s silent apart from his measured inhale and exhales, purposefully slow and deep like he’s trying to breath the pain of wanting me away.
He reaches out a hand to brush his fingers over the wound in my torso. His hands are warm and rough, just like I remember them, but his touch is achingly gentle, so careful not to hurt me. He runs his fingers over each of places where a bullet pierced my skin, checking me over without a word. The quiet concentration on his face, combined with the hint of rage from before tingeing the edges of his expression, rage meant for me, because of what OI did to me, is mesmerising.
Everything feels heavy, the air in the room a metal blanket around my shoulders. It’s like I can feel gravity pushing me down. I went diving once with my mum, one of the few days she took me away from the lab, to see the turtles. She loved the sea, loved the creatures that live there. The further down in the ocean you go, the worse the pressure. It closes in from all sides, squeezing your body with its unfathomable strength.
“Aaron,” I say again, and that’s it, that’s as far as my begging goes. I don’t put much stock in dignity, had too much of mine stripped out and set on fire right in front of me to pretend, but I need to retain some semblance of respect for myself with Aaron. I can’t start giving everything to him, ripping myself open and tearing out the pulsing, vulnerable pieces that still reside inside me. The parts that my dad never got the chance to ruin.
Aaron’s eyes drag back up, slowly, to land on my face. He raises a big hand to grasp my chin between his fingers. His other hand slides around my back and under the waistband of my jogging bottoms. He grips my arse, hard. Outrageously possessive. I can feel myself getting hard just from the arrogance of it, the way he’s holding me like I’m his to touch like this.
“They’re dead,” he tells me. “The men who shot you.” He’s so fucking serious, from the gritty rumble of his voice to the piercing gaze, looking into me like a hawk zeroing in on prey from above. It sends a shiver down my spine, the thrashing, wild thing that lives behind Aaron’s eyes calling out to me.
“Because you killed them?” I ask in a low murmur, as if it’s a dark secret he’s sharing.
“Yes,” Aaron says, no hesitation or apology. No regret. It stokes a fire in my gut that I don’t know how to suppress, or maybe I just don’t know how towanttosuppress it.
“Did you have to?” The question comes out sounding breathless and wary, like I’m unsure if I can handle the answer.
Aaron's fingers on my chin tighten, holding me in place that little bit more firmly, as if I might bottle it and bolt at any moment. “I wanted to.”
I stare up at him, defiant. Angry. Always so fucking angry all the time. Everysecond. “Is this how you seduce people, North? With vengeance?” It’s supposed to be mocking but it doesn’t hit the right note. The tone is off, pitches too close to excitement.
