Touching her and being near her is addictive. None of this should be happening. I should have brought her back, made sure she showered, given her food, tucked her into bed and written up a report on the whole event before I started research on the shooter.
What I shouldn't be doing is picking out library books for her to read for the next week while I search out the man who has hunted her to the point where she can’t sleep and, from the look of her, she probably isn’t eating, either..
We’re gonna fix that, love. I’ll make sure you’re cared for under this roof. I promise.
Again, our conversation falls into the realm of silence. But she watches my face, and reads my eyes. I don't think there's a single concept that she misses as she hugs the books to her chest.
Thank you.Adora mouths the words. I swear I hear them in her voice even though no sound comes out.
My hand drifts to her cheek. I freeze, knowing I shouldn't touch her, but I want to anyway. She's so damn warm and soft and close. And no part of her objects right now when I brush my knuckles along her jawline.
“When did you stop talking, love?”
Her eyes flare wide, and she retreats a step. The long breaths she’s subsided into become short and sharp. I curse myself forlulling myself into my own trap and don’t follow her across the floor.
“I’m sorry, Adora. I won’t ask again.”
Those wide eyes watch me, wary as she frowns. Uncertain if she can trust me or not. Because the only frame of reference we have is of me launching myself at her to stop her from bleeding out in my arms a half dozen hours earlier.
As though reading my mind, she taps her shoulder.
My lisp quirk in recognition. “Yeah, love. It hurts. A hell of a lot. But you know what? I like pain. It reminds me who I am and why I do what I do.”
I lean back against the bookshelf I've ravaged behind me, and keep my eyes on her. The graze flares in my shoulder, the edges twinging, giving lie to my words that will never show on my face.
Fine. I prefer a certain sort of pain to others. The sort that will never hinder my work.
“This is your space, now. Use the house as you like, but don’t wander too far outside unless I'm with you. Will you do that for me?”
She shivers, the memory of the gunshot and the building still fresh between us, and nods.
A breath glides from my lungs, knowing she’s not going to be the pain in my ass that her file promised me after all. Adora is so much more than everything that piece of paper promised. It’s as though whoever wrote it didn’t know her at all.
“Thank you. Alright, I promised food and drink. Do you want to do that now, or tomorrow?” Technically, it already is tomorrow but we haven’t turned the clock over yet. Here, it’s those strange, in between hours that could be night or it could be morning. But when you blink, your alarm goes off and the new day has started.
“Tea?” She looks at me hopefully, the single word rasping, almost clear.
I nod. “I have tea.” A decent selection, actually. “Black, or herbal?”
Delight lights her face, transforming her from a drawn, pale woman into a glowing ball of energy.
Christ, she’s beautiful.
I’ve screwed up, putting her in my shirt, but I’m severely lacking in the women’s clothing department to lend her. Hell, I don't want to see her in anything else but my shirt. A dangerous sense of possession slams me that has nothing to do with my job and everything to do with the woman before me. My hands fist at my sides, the vision of pulling that shirt tight and ripping it from her?—
NO.
She’s an asset first. Which means that no matter how comfortable I am with this strange and beautiful woman standing in my library, I can’t be that close to her. Ever.
“Kitchen’s this way,” I say abruptly, pushing away from the shelves. My back is to her, but not before her confused look spikes a bolt of ruined desire through my bloodstream.
She can never be mine. No matter how damn fine she looks in my shirt.
I strode toward the kitchen, pulling out boxes of tea and line them up on the heavy wooden bench. “Herbals. Black teas. Green, and green with mint,” I add, placing both loose leaf and tea bags on the counter in their respective boxes. I add two cups and a strainer to the mix and lift my head to find her staring at me. “Whatever you choose, I’ll make two cups,” I clarify.
Another nod. She never relinquishes those books. I expect the same process as the book selection, but after a moment she points to a forest colored box laced with gold decorations.,
I grin. “Green tea with mint it is.” I make the tea, let it steep, and slide one cup toward her once I’m done.
