I know the road carries like cells in Miles’ blood the way nursing runs in mine.
Another rumble. Then the sharp crack of something hitting the front door. A shout. Men moving fast in the hallway, boots pounding. A chair scraping. A curse.
My pulse spikes so hard my vision blurs as I use the wall to slide the blindfold off my eyes.
Duke’s eyes open wider, fear or pain or both. The president’s hand drops to his belt.
“Stay,” he snaps at me like I’m a dog. “Don’t move.”
As if I could. As if my entire body isn’t a spring wound tight.
A gunshot cracks somewhere in the house. I flinch violently, hands jerking toward my face.
Duke’s body makes a thud as the President who was so determined to keep him alive puts a bullet in his head.
Another shout—different voice, deeper, furious.
Not one of them. No I know this voice. My heart slams against my ribs.
Miles.
It has to be. The world becomes sound and motion.
Men yelling. Feet running. A door slamming. Something crashing into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the picture frames.
The president steps into the hall, barking orders I can’t fully make out.
One of the men in the room with me lifts his gun toward the doorway, hands shaking now, not so confident anymore.
“Get her,” someone shouts from down the hall. “She’s in the back!”
The man with the gun turns his head toward me like I’m suddenly worth more alive than dead.
My breath catches.
He takes one step forward—And then the bedroom door explodes inward.
Not literally—no fire, no blast—but it slams open so hard it bangs against the wall, and a body fills the frame.
Leather.
A cut.
A man built from anger and miles.
Dixon “Miles” Hardison stands before me a man with fury in his face.
For half a second, time stops. His eyes find mine like a lock clicking into place.
The look on his face is a storm.
Fear.
Relief.
Pure, murderous rage.
And love so fierce it makes my chest ache.
