He’s never been this late before.
My blood rushes hot through my veins, my pulse roaring in my ears as that image of him in a ditch pops back up, more vivid this time. More real.
Shit, I need to stop this. I smack my cheeks, trying to knock some sense into myself. I’m not his girlfriend or even his friend. I’m a spy sent to eventually betray him. I can’t worry about him. Can’t let him burrow under my skin like this.
I march up to my bedroom with angry, determined steps and slam the door behind me. From my nightstand drawer, I take out my sleeping pills.Just swallow one and go to sleep, I tell myself. By morning, this will feel like nothing more than a vaguely annoying blip in my memory—no big deal.
I twist the cap of the pill container, then realize I forgot to bring water upstairs.
“Great,” I mutter, still pissed as I storm back downstairs to the kitchen. I’m pulling a bottle of water from the fridge just as the sound of the code being keyed into the front door reaches my ears.
He’s home.
My anger surges to the surface, sharper and hotter than ever now that I have someone to direct it at—the very person who made me this vexed in the first place.But I have no rights.I remind myself desperately. I’m not here for some romance. This isn’t a romance.
I stiffen when his footsteps get closer and closer andreluctantly close the fridge, clutching the water bottle in one hand and my pill container in the other as I turn around and wait for him to appear.
When he finally steps into view beneath the chandelier lights I haven’t bothered to turn off, I see everything in stark, horrible detail. My eyes pop wide at the deep red stain on his collar, his chest, down his belly. Even from this distance, the metallic scent hits me.
Blood.
The bottle and pill container slip from my hands before I even register letting them go, and without thinking, without remembering to be cautious or anything resembling smart, I’m running towards him. My heart pounds for an entirely different reason now, my anger switching to sheer panic in the blink of an eye. “What’s this? What happened? Did someone shoot at you? Where are you hurt?” I tug frantically at his leather jacket, trying to strip it off so I can unbutton his shirt and find the wound before he collapses.
Please don’t be dying. Please.
“Katina.” His voice is surprisingly gentle as he catches my chin and tilts my face up towards his. “The blood isn’t mine.”
What?
My brows pull together as I stare up at him, and it takes a long moment for the words to sink in because I’m lost in his captivating gaze, drowning in all that green. And then the meaning penetrates my panic-fogged brain and I startle backward, a rush of heat flooding my cheeks.
Not his blood.
I start to back away from him, but his hands land on my shoulders, his grip firm enough to hold me in place.
“Were you really worried about me? Or was that just an act?”
His question hits me like a physical blow, and I jerk against his grip, but I’m not going anywhere with how tight he’sholding me. So instead I glare up at him, all that earlier anger roaring back to life in full force. “Fuck you.”
“That can be arranged, baby.” His thumb rubs my shoulder in a gentle circle that contradicts the intensity of his gaze. “So, it wasn’t an act? I can never tell with you.”
I open my mouth to deliver a scathing retort, but he’s already leaning down, his breath fanning my face as he gets closer and closer, and every coherent thought just fizzles out of my brain.
His lips crash into mine, and I barely have time to process what’s happening before his hands are gripping my waist, pulling me flush against him.
The kiss is soft at first, almost questioning, like he’s testing the waters to see if I’ll push him away. But it doesn’t take long before it shifts into something harder, rougher, almost punishing. Like he’s angry—at me, at himself.
I don’t care. I kiss him back just as fiercely, pouring all my frustration into it becauseI’mangry too. He’s my enemy. I’m supposed to be spying on him, gathering intelligence, not falling into his goddamn arms every time he touches me.
But God, he tastes so good—the faintest hint of whiskey and something citrusy like lemon. His tongue parts my lips demandingly, and I let him in, surrendering control because it’s the only way to maintain any semblance of it.
That doesn’t even make sense. But nothing about this makes sense anymore.
My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to erase every molecule of space between us. He groans against my mouth, a low, hungry sound that sends liquid heat pooling between my thighs.
He breaks the kiss to catch his breath, but his lips don’t leave me—they move to my jaw, then my neck, biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. “You’re a fucking problem, Katina,” he growls against my skin, his voice rough as gravel.
“Right back at you,” I bite out, my voice raspier than it’s ever been. I shouldn’t want this. Shouldn’t want him. But God help me, I do.
