“I’m not your enemy.”
“No,” I say. “You’re not.”
The admission hits her hard. She didn’t expect it. It disarms her more than any threat could. I step in even closer. She tries not to react, but I see everything—the tremor in her fingers, the spike in her breath, the panic fighting with the courage she clings to.
“Don’t,” she whispers when I move one step too close.
I stop just short of touching her. “I’m testing you.”
“For what?” Her voice shakes.
“To see if you break.”
“I won’t.”
Her vow is fragile and fierce all at once. Something hot and low twists in my chest at the sound of it. I take a step back to steady myself, but distance does nothing to cool the intensity building under my skin.
I start to pace.
I never pace. Not in front of anyone, but she watches every movement I make, tracking me like she wants to understand the man who terrified her one night and now stands in her apartment wrestling with something he refuses to name.
My men wouldn’t recognize me like this. Hell, I barely recognize myself.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” she asks suddenly.
“Like what?” My voice comes out sharper than intended.
“Like you’re trying to decide what I am to you.”
The accuracy of the observation lands like a blow. I freeze, tension snapping tight across my spine. Eden stares at me with those steady, frightened eyes. She has no idea how close she is to the truth. Or how dangerous that truth is for both of us.
She swallows. “Am I a threat? A witness? A mistake?”
“None of those,” I say.
“Then what?”
Before I can reason myself out of it, I step toward her again. She inhales sharply, but she doesn’t retreat. Her courage is a flame she holds too close to her own skin, flickering but refusing to go out. I should walk away.
Instead, my hand lifts.
I brush my fingers through her hair and tuck a strand behind her ear. The contact jolts us both. Her breath catches audibly. Her lashes tremble. Her skin warms under my fingertips.
For a suspended moment, neither of us moves.
Her eyes lock on mine with raw vulnerability, something fragile and burning. The moment stretches, heavy and intimate, charged with heat neither of us meant to create. It coils up myspine, powerful enough to threaten the control I’ve kept ironclad for years.
I pull back.
Her body reacts first—a tiny, involuntary step after mine, like she almost follows. She stops herself, cheeks flushed, breath unsteady. The air between us feels electrified, thick with something neither of us can pretend isn’t real.
“Get some rest,” I say, voice low, strained, unfamiliar even to my own ears.
She stares at me, a mix of fear and frustration tightening her expression. “Are you leaving?”
“For now.”
Her shoulders drop, barely, but enough for me to see. Enough to haunt me.
