There was a split second where I could see her decide to bolt. Put a joke between us. Snap the tension in half and kick it under the bed.
I didn’t let her.
I pulled her closer that last inch.
Our mouths met.
It wasn’t pretty or practiced. It was that kind of first contact born out of too many almosts and almost-dies. Harder than it needed to be. Hungrier than it had any right to be in a room that still smelled vaguely like someone else’s blood.
She made a small sound—surprised, half-protest, half-something else—and then her fingers were in my hair. The other hand fisted in the waistband of my jeans like she wanted leverage.
The world narrowed to the press of her lips, the taste, a soul soothing venom, the way her body fit against mine like we’d been doing this longer than twenty seconds.
When I finally pulled back, it was only because my lungs filed a complaint.
Shestared at me.
She looked… shocked. Not in that “how dare you” way. But in that “did I just do that” way.
“Why the hell did you—” she started.
“In case this all goes south quick,” I cut in. My voice came out rough. “If we end up bleeding out in some parking lot or alleyway, I didn’t want to be sitting in hell beside the Devil, pissed at myself that I never got to taste you at least once.”
Her mouth opened then closed.
“You’re an idiot,” she said finally. But there was no heat in it.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But at least I’m honest about it.”
Her hand was still on my waist. Mine was still around her wrist. Neither of us seemed in a hurry to change that.
Someone pounded on the door.
“Jersey!” 8-Ball’s voice, muffled through the wood. “Valkyrie! Prez wants you in his office. Now.”
We jumped apart like teenagers caught in the back seat.
Valkyrie stepped back, straightening her cut, eyes doing that thing where they tried to slam steel shutters down over everything. I dragged the shirt over my head, fingers fumbling the hem.
“On our way,” I called, sounding way more composed than I actually felt.
I grabbed my boots, shoved my feet into them without bothering with the laces.
She glanced at me once on the way to the door.There was a question in it. About what that had been. What it meant. Whether this was the worst possible time for something like that. If it would happen again.
I didn’t have an answer yet.
We didn’t have the time to search for one.
8-Ball was waiting in the hall, arms crossed. His gaze hit my face, then hers. He clocked something. He wasn’t stupid. But he didn’t comment.
“Roman’s on the line,” he said. “Blackjack wants both of you in the room.”
The fatigue that had been dragging at my shoulders snapped tight.
Enforcer mode slid back into place like it had just been waiting for a reason.
“Let’s go,” I said.
