Page 53 of Trust

He glances at me sideways as he stirs the powder into the water. “Yeah. Trust me, it’ll help. You’ll thank me when you wake up tomorrow and don’t feel like roadkill.”

My mind trips over the idea of Chris drawing me a bath. “I mean, you’re not—”

“I’m not joining,” he says, holding my gaze. “Unless you need backup.”

I choke on a laugh, shaking my head. “Yeah, no. I’m good.”

A hint of humor plays at his lips. Is he flirting with me? Would I want him to? Jeez, stop being ridiculous, Sara.

The bath turns out to be exactly what I needed. He even threw in a handful of Epsom salts, and the water is the perfect kind of hot. I sink into it with a groan, arms folded over the edge of the tub, forehead resting on them.

But I can’t relax all the way. Not with my head spinning from training and from the way his hands had guided mine, stabilizing me, his breath low at my ear. I hate how warm that thought makes me, or maybe it’s just the water.

The last two days were an unexpected high. I’m more connected to myself than ever before. Pushing my body’s limits puts me in control.

Oh my God, I enjoy training with a killer. And not just any killer. The man who stole me, locked me in his shed, and changed my life in one sudden turn off the road. What does that make me? Deep down, I’m not sure I’m doing this for the right reasons. The line’s starting to blur.

When I finally emerge, pink-skinned and drowsy, he’s already got dinner going. He stirs the pan with the same focus he uses in training, precise without being fussy.

I help him before he can ask and set the table. Few words pass, yet the quiet is comfortable. I keep sneaking glances at him when he isn’t paying attention to me. Trying to reconcile the man who carries guns and ends people with the one cooking right in front of me. The two versions don’t fit. For all I know, I should be more afraid of having a weakness for the second.

As we sit down to eat, I find myself poking around the plate just to stay busy.

“Are you gonna make a fire again tonight?” I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. It’s not that I’ve been thinking about it ever since I was in the tub.

He glances up at me with a hint of a smile. “You want me to?”

I inspect my nails to avoid his eyes. “Only if you were going to anyway.”

“Sure.”

After we clean up the dishes, he kneels in front of the fireplace and stacks the logs while I sink into the couch, closer to his spot this time.

“You gonna make it through a movie tonight,” he asks, “or are you gonna pass out on me again?”

I make a face. “Okay, yeah, about that. I don’t remember going to bed last night.”

He chuckles, low. “Because you didn’t. I carried you.”

My mouth falls open. “You what?”

He shrugs. “You were out cold. I couldn’t wake you, and the couch would’ve just made your aches worse.”

I press my lips together, mortified. “Sorry. That must’ve been... I don’t know. Weird.”

“Wasn’t weird.”

Of course he’d say that, while I’m not able to even look at him directly, thankful when he presses play.

SEALED

Cash

One week chasing shadows. Nothing obvious. Which means something’s buried deep—on purpose. I dread the last stop on my little road trip even more than the ones before.

Downtown’s changed again. My last memory of this corner is an Indian restaurant with samosas to kill for. Now it’s a print shop. How disappointing.

The electric doors slide open with a chime, and I step into a different time period. Rows of oversized printers and fluorescent lighting. Workers who don’t quite fit in, too stiff, too alert. The bulges of guns and knives sit poorly beneath their clothes, subtle as bricks. I’d bet half of them can’t tell toner from ink.