“People lie,” Sin says.
I glance back at him, and he’s watching me like he’s pleased and pissed off at the same time. That look does something to me. Something hot and dangerous. My mouth opens before my brain can help. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m evaluating you.”
“Same thing,” I mutter.
He moves in front of me now, close enough that I can see the faint shadow on his jaw, the line of his mouth. His gaze drops briefly, then lifts.
My pulse stutters. I try to focus on the drill. I do. I really do. But all I can think about is how it would feel if he stopped using words and started using his mouth.
Which is a terrible thought for a woman in danger. Also, I’ve been in danger for weeks, and my body is done being polite about what it wants.
Sin resets the scenario.
“Back window breaks,” he says.
I jump, then move fast. Hallway. Second door left. Closet. Panel. I yank it open, slip inside, and slam it shut. Darkness. My breathing sounds too loud.
“Time,” Sin calls through the door.
I push it open and step out, heart racing.
Sin checks his stopwatch. “Better. Again.”
“Do we get snacks for good performance?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
His gaze pins me. “You want a reward.”
I swallow. Because yes, actually. But I don’t want a snack. I don’t want some stupid gold star.
I want him.
The words sit in my chest with a heavy ache. I nod once anyway, because I refuse to look flustered. “I want to know I’m doing it right.”
Sin steps closer. “You are.” His voice is calm, but his eyes are not. His eyes look like a man holding the line on something that wants to break through.
I can tell. It’s in the way his jaw tightens when I get too close. The way his gaze tracks my mouth and then snaps away like it’s dangerous to look too long. I should back off. I don’t.
Because I’m lonely.
Because I’m scared.
Because I haven’t been touched in almost a year and now there’s this man in front of me who makes my whole body feel awake. And because I know he wants me too. He can pretend he doesn’t. He can call it discipline. He can hide behind rules. But I see it. I see it in his hands when they flex at his sides like they want to grab me. I see it in the way he breathes when I move. I see it in the hard stillness he uses to hold himself back.
“Next drill,” he says, and his voice is a little rough.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Evasion,” he replies. “If someone gets their hands on you, you break contact and move.”
My throat goes dry. “We’re doing… that.”
“Yes.”
“Here.”
“Now.”
