“I shouldn’t have done that.”
The words hit colder than they should.
“Oh.”
His eyes open fast. “No. Reina, no. That’s not what I mean.”
I step back anyway because old instincts are fast. Faster than reason. Faster than hope.
He stands, careful with his shoulder, and keeps his hands at his sides like he’s afraid reaching for me will make it worse.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “You’ve had a hell of a night. You’re shaken. You’re under my roof because you need protection. I had no right to touch you like that.”
I stare at him.
At this huge, scarred, tattooed man who can drop armed criminals without blinking and somehow looks wrecked because he kissed me too soon.
The ache in my chest changes shape.
“I kissed you back,” I say softly.
His eyes darken.
“I know.”
“I wanted to.”
“I know that too.”
My face heats.
“Then why are you apologizing?”
“Because wanting you doesn’t make it right.”
The room goes very quiet.
Wanting you.
My heart grabs those words and holds on like an idiot.
I look down at myself. Blood on my scrubs. Dirt on my knees. Curves I usually try to hide under loose fabric. A body too soft for a man who looks like him.
“You want me?”
His expression goes hard in a different way.
Like I’ve offended him.
“Sweetheart.”
He says it like the answer should be obvious.
I swallow.
His gaze moves over me, slow enough to feel like touch, careful enough not to make me feel hunted.
“You have no idea,” he says.
