"Nowhere's safe territory for me."
I stand to leave, and he catches my hand. Just for a second. Just long enough for every nerve ending in my body to stage a revolt. His thumb brushes over my pulse point—checking my heart rate or claiming me, possibly both.
"Follow me to the van," I say, pulling my hand away before I combust. "We need to talk. Or not talk."
"Torch—"
"Can watch me give you medical information about the woman you saw me save. Completely professional."
"Nothing about us is professional."
"Then we better make it look good."
I walk out first. He follows thirty seconds later. Torch texts frantically from his bike, probably sending Miguel play-by-plays that would be hilarious if they weren't potentially lethal.
My Mobile Mercy Unit is parked around the corner. The faded paint proclaiming medical salvation, Santos Electric magnets stored in the back because I forgot to put them on this morning. I unlock the back doors, climb in, pretending to organize medical supplies.
Zane follows.
The door closes.
We're alone.
"This is a terrible idea," I say.
"The worst," he agrees, stepping closer.
"We should talk about—"
"We should."
"The ramifications—"
"Absolutely."
"The logistics of—"
He's close enough now that I can smell him—leather, motor oil, that soap that apparently does do laundry, and underneath it all, the copper-sweet scent of adrenaline that matches mine.
"Lena."
The way he says my name should be illegal. Is illegal, probably, in several states.
"We can't."
"We are."
"This will end with blood."
"Everything does." His hand comes up, hovering near my face, not touching. Waiting. Asking.
"Torch is watching," I whisper.
"Let him."
"You don't mean that."
"I mean everything when it comes to you."
