I don’t have that luxury, even though I’m running on empty. That was the case even before I nabbed Trinity and everything went to hell.
I recognize that a tired a man is more likely to make mistakes.
But letting Trinity out of my sight—giving her the exact opportunity she’s been lying in wait for, even just to grab an hour of rest—would be my final, fatal error.
I’m sure of that.
This defiant little bitch threw a fucking stool at me.
God help me, I’ve never been so turned on.
At this point, I’m sure I’ve crossed the line into full delirium.
That’s the only explanation for what I do next.
Rising from my seat at the window, I stalk toward the mattress on heavy, exhausted legs. As I climb aboard, the bed groans under my weight.
Trinity flinches in the darkness. Even that tiny tremor is still tremor enough to satisfy me.
I plop down on my back, fully clothed, and set my gun on the nightstand. The bed is a double, which is basically just a twin bed built for two. Though there’s technically room for us both, it’s a cramped fit.
My shoulder sits inches from her spine.
Two prisoners forced to share a bunk in a jail cell.
My soft inhale through my nose carries the scent of her fear and sandalwood soap straight to my brain.
I can already tell I’ve miscalculated.
While it’s tactically insane, it’s also my only option.
I need sleep, and she can’t be trusted.
Lying beside her is the most practical way to get rest and monitor her simultaneously. I’ll sense if she tries to get up, and I’ll snatch her.
Except there’s nothing practical about my body’s reactions to our physical proximity, or the way my muscles flex, tense, and pulse from the two inches between us.
There’s absolutely nothing practical about the ridge of my dick pressing against my pants the same way an inmate leans against the bars.
I listen to her steady breathing, waiting for her respirations to deepen and level out. They never do. I’m about to drift into the red zone of exhaustion—where I blackout whether I want to or not—when she whimpers.
My eyes flick over to her. She’s shaking. A little, then a lot.
A nightmare?
Another second passes, and her body jolts against the mattress, creaking the springs.
The strangled sob she releases cuts straight through me.
It’s the cry of the girl I kidnapped, not the fighter I’ve been sparring with ever since. An ache probably triggered by the wound I ripped open downstairs.
This is the kind of vulnerability I’m trained to exploit.
After all these years, I should be immune to any reaction. Yet when another achy little sob crawls out of her throat, I cringe.
I roll onto my side and find myself facing her back. My heart’s jogging in my chest, my fingers jerky as I grope the curve of her hip and rub my thumb in small circles against the line of her waist.
A few seconds later, Trinity goes absolutely rigid.
