She was in love with him.
And god help her.
19
Hew heard the shower cut off. Heard the soft whir of Sabrina’s toothbrush. Heard the rhythmic hum of her hairdryer.
Such sweet, domestic sounds. Feminine sounds. Sabrina sounds.
They should’ve comforted him. Warmed him.
She was home. She was whole. She felt well enough to go about her usual morning ablutions.
Except…a war raged within him.
On the one side was the part of him that was sure he’d felt her warm lips on his skin. Felt her hot breath as she opened her mouth and the wet, tentative, testicle-tightening touch of her tongue over his pulse point.
On the other side was the certainty that his brain, fried from twenty-four hours of fear and adrenaline, had hallucinated the whole damn thing. And what he’d thought was her wet tongue was just one of her tears sliding against his skin. What he’s mistaken for her lips opening was just…
What?
He scrubbed a hand down his face and dragged in a deep breath that contained plenty of oxygen but, unfortunately, didn’t contain any answers.
The sound of the bathroom door creaking open pulled him from his battling thoughts. Looking up, he decided it was a good thing his last breath contained plenty of oxygen. Because, suddenly, he forgot how to breathe.
Sabrina stood framed in the doorway like a goddamn vision. Damp hair clung to her throat, curling at the ends like chocolate ribbons. Steam kissed her skin, making it glisten. And her little pink robe molded itself to her lithe frame like it was trying to decide if it wanted to be completely immodest or just slightly immodest.
He felt his self-control fray and barely refrained from marching over, cupping her sweet face in his hand, and kissing her cross-eyed.
That would tell him if she’d really kissed his neck or if he’d imagined it all.
“I thought you left.” She pulled the two halves of the robe tighter, interrupting his heated thoughts.
Good thing. Too much more of that and he’d need to pull one of the pillows from her bed over his lap.
“Sorry.” He stood from the chair, suddenly aware of how inappropriate it was to linger in her bedroom uninvited. “Didn’t mean to— I’ll head downstairs and?—”
He saw it then.
The dark bruise blooming just above the robe’s lapel. Deep. Angry. Fresh.
His body moved before his brain caught up. One second, he was standing beside her bed. The next, he was there, chest-to-chest, fist in the silk of her robe, fury singing through his veins.
Before he could stop himself, he pulled the material aside to examine what it covered.
“What—?” Sabrina squeaked and blinked up at him in shocked astonishment.
He barely noticed. He was too distracted by the rage that rolled over him as quickly and as densely as a New England fog bank.
This wasn’t cold, though. It was white-hot.
“What did those motherfuckers do to you?” His voice was gunpowder soaked in gasoline. He barely recognized it as his own. “I’m goin’ to kill her.” He turned toward the door, determined to march downstairs and wrap his hands around the throat of the blonde. “I’m goin’ to put three holes in her skull and turn her head into a fuckin’ bowlin’ ball?—”
“Hew. Stop.” Sabrina had somehow beaten him to the door. She used her body—her arms spread out to grip the doorframe—to keep him from leaving. “It wasn’t Black Widow.”
He swallowed, fighting for control. “That’s what she calls herself? Jesus. What an arrogant?—”
“Doesn’t matter,” she cut him off. “What matters is that it wasn’t her. It was the one they called Diesel. And you can’t turn his head into a bowling ball because he’s already dead.”
