Something warm and dangerous settled in my chest.
He moved toward the door, then stopped, turning back to me.
“This doesn’t end tonight,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I met his gaze, my pulse finally slowing just enough to feel deliberate.
“No,” I said. “It doesn’t.”
He nodded once, satisfied, then left me standing in my apartment—breathless, frustrated, awake.
The door closed softly behind him.
I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, my head tipping back, my body still humming with unsatisfied want.
And for the first time in my life, I didn’t mistake frustration for rejection.
I smiled.
Paris had taught me how to choose.
13
CONNOR
Icouldn't believe the night.
Couldn't believe I'd somehow restrained myself when every instinct I had screamed to stay. To take what she was offering. To bury myself to the hilt in her and feel her body arch beneath mine, hands gliding over every inch of her skin.
But I'd seen something shift in Mila tonight. Watched her become another woman—stronger, even more enticing, if that was possible. A woman coming into her own, shedding layers she'd been carrying for too long.
And something about leaving that dessert for another night had seemed right in the moment.
But now, walking back toward The Sanctuary through streets that smelled like rain and stone, I wasn't so sure.
I'd have loved to be buried in her right now. Hands mapping her curves. Mouth tasting every sound she made. Feeling her come undone under my touch while she looked at me like I wasn't broken.
Get yourself together, Ward.
I shook my head, forcing my thoughts into line.
Remember why you're here.
I was on the run. Men from my past were hunting me. I had no business dragging Mila into this mess, no matter how much my body disagreed.
As if on cue, someone whistled from across the street.
Not just any whistle.
A familiar one. Three sharp notes, ascending. The kind we'd used as kids to signal each other at St. Paul's.
My heart sank.
I stopped walking, every muscle in my body going taut, and turned toward the sound.
A figure stepped out of the shadows, crossing the street with the same swagger he'd had at twelve years old. Cocky. Slick. Like he oozed the same olive oil we'd eaten at those traditional Christmas dinners they used to force on us.
