And four, I’m entirely, utterly, hopelessly in danger of losing my heart completely and forever.
“Morning,” he says when I stumble into my kitchen with bedhead, morning breath, and pillow creases on my cheek that no amount of pinching would get rid of. “I made breakfast.”
I eye the smoking toaster with suspicion and tug on the tie of my weighted robe. “Did you though?”
“Ah…” He scratches the back of his neck. “I made an attempt at breakfast.”
Dang. He could disarm bank robbers with that grin alone.
“That seems…more accurate.” I rescue the charred bread before my smoke alarm goes off. Again. “How do you burn toast? I even lowered the setting after yesterday’s…episode.”
“In my defense, your toaster is temperamental.”
“My toaster is fine. You’re just—” I gesture in his general direction, but his sleep-rumpled hair, the bare chest, those ridiculous abs that have no business existing on a real human are messing with my morning brain fog. “You’re distracting.”
The words slip out before I can stop them.
His smile turns absolutely wicked. “Distracting? Distracting how?”
“I meant, distracted. You’re distracted. By—by security concerns.” I’m babbling now. “And Chief. And Wrecks.” Who chooses that moment to waltz into the kitchen. “Gah! He’s eating your shoe again.”
Valen spins to find Wrecks enthusiastically destroying what was once a very expensive running shoe.
“That’s the third one this week,” he mutters, rescuing what’s left of the sneaker. “I’m going to run out of shoes before we figure out what he has against my feet.”
“Maybe he’s jealous.” I pour coffee into two mugs, adding cream to mine and leaving his black because he enjoys it when his coffee strips away all his taste buds on the way down. “You do spend a lot of time walking.”
“I do perimeter checks.”
“You pace,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
He accepts the coffee, and even though I try to avoid contact, his fingers brush mine, and a thrill of longing races up my arm. We’ve been doing this dance for days—small touches that linger,eye contact that makes my skin heat, moments that feel almost…meaningful.
He fights it. I see how his jaw tightens when he catches himself standing too close. The way he takes a deliberate step back after every accidental touch. He’s great at masking his feelings, but some reactions you can’t hide.
Like the way his eyes darken the moment they land on me, or how his breath catches the instant our skin touches. He’s holding himself on a leash so tight it must be suffocating.
Part of me wants to tell him it’s okay. The other part of me is terrified of what happens when he lets go.
It’s messing with the little inner peace I possess. Every time he’s near, my body ramps up, anticipating his touch, his scent, his voice. He’s sensory overload in an aggressive sexually charged form.
“I don’t pace,” he says, his lips curling at the corners.
“You absolutely pace. Every night. Living room to kitchen to front door. Then you check the locks, the windows, and the back door before you head to the couch and repeat the process.”
“That’s not pacing, that’s?—”
“Security theater?”
His lips twitch. “You’ve been talking to Roman.”
Over his shoulder, something in the window catches my attention. Movement, maybe, at the tree line of my property. My hand freezes with my coffee cup halfway to my lips, and I quickly steady my hold so I don’t burn myself. When I look back at the window, there’s nothing. Just shadows and early morning mist.
Valen, noticing my hesitation, silently follows my gaze while I track his hand that drifts to his waistband.
Did he see something too?
When he doesn’t comment, I convince myself that I’m once again imagining things. Fear invading reality is not uncommon for me, especially when I’m stressed, and the last thing I need isfor Valen to witness just how bad my paranoia can be, so I steer us toward safer topics.
