“The haunted look in your eyes,” she replied.
I snorted, grabbed the towel, and wiped my face. “That one’s permanent.”
We’d barely had time to breathe since the SUVs rolled off and Blackjack got those three calls—strip club, bar, gunshop all hit like a row of glass bottles on a fence. Message work. Three broken fingers.
I dropped the towel on the sink and reached for a clean shirt I had sat on the counter. The one I’d been wearing had a brown smear on the front where the cartel guy’s blood had dried tacky.
Valkyrie’s gaze tracked the motion. I could feel it, her eyes on my skin.
“You good?” I asked, without looking at her.
“Define good,” she said. “No one I care about died today. Yet. That’s my baseline right now.”
“Same,” I replied.
The air went quiet for a second.
“Can I use your bathroom?” she asked suddenly.
I glanced back at her. “You think I’m gonna say no?”
“I’ve seen some of the things you boys call bathrooms,” she said. “Could be a war crime in there.”
“The only casualty in mine is my dignity,” I said. “Go ahead.”
She pushed off the bed and crossed into the room. Even tired, she moved like she was built for battle—balanced, ready. She brushed past me, close enough that the heat of her shoulderkissed my bare arm.
I stopped short. She did too.
For a heartbeat we were inches apart. Her breath hit my chest. Mine hit her forehead. The bathroom light caught on the chain around her throat, the little flash of the safe key nestled against her collarbone.
Her eyes dropped.
Not in a shy way. In a “taking stock” way.
They ran over my chest, stopping for half a second on every scar, every line of ink across my throat I’d had done in Miami’s room at three in the morning. The black sweep of the Devil’s ace on my shoulder. The old white puckered half-moon just under my clavicle that I didn’t talk about.
Her hand moved before either of us thought about it.
Fingers sliding up, knuckles brushing my stomach, palm flattening across my abs like she was checking if they were real. Skin on skin. Warm. Callused. Curious.
My muscles tightened under the touch. Not on purpose. Just… instinct.
She seemed to realize what she was doing a half-second after. Her eyes went wide. Her hand jerked back like she’d put it on a hot stove.
“Shit,” she blurted. “Sorry. I— that was—”
I caught her wrist before she could retreat all the way.
Not hard. Just enough.
She froze.
We were still close enough that one wrong movewould’ve had us kissing or headbutting. I chose one.
“Hey,” I said, voice lower than I meant. “Don’t apologize.”
Her pulse jumped under my fingers. Her eyes lifted to mine. Up close, I could see every tiny fleck of color in them. The tired, the fear she’d never name, the anger she wore like armor.
