Page 19 of Every Last Breath

Eyes darker than a nightmare stayed narrowed, lean muscles bunched, poised to launch into explosive action. He lowered his gun, slowly, as if debating whether or not to put a bullet in her. He blinked twice, settling a hair.

Releasing a breath, he flipped the safety on, stuffed his gun in a pack, and tossed it on the sofa. The bottom vent plate on the fireplace slid to the surrounding marble with a clank.

She whipped a cutting gaze at him. “You rummaged through my things?”

“Can you blame me? You did kidnap me with no explanation.”

In a day, he’d fought off four armed men and been drugged and abducted—by her, no less. She couldn’t blame him. “I rescued you—big difference. And I told you to wait until dark to come.”

Reece and Gideon were probably having a laugh over this one. At least she was confident they’d give her the professional courtesy of not spying on their conversation.

“I’m not much good at following orders.” He shrugged out of his riding jacket, revealing those sculpted arms covered in tats he’d acquired in his new life. One where she didn’t exist.

Had he kept his first ink on his back or covered it with something that didn’t remind him of her?

“So I’ve seen.” She collected the groceries from the hall and locked the door.

The rubber-band tension in him eased, and he no longer looked ready to snap, but his eyes were wild and wary. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, ankles crossed, looking kick-ass cool. Her gaze snagged on the long, tantalizing line of his ripped physique, and her heart did a silly flip.

She wanted to slap herself for having the same old physical reactions to him. Better yet, slap him for pretending to be dead and putting her through the agony of mourning him.

“Are you hungry?” She forced a tone of nonchalance while unpacking the food and putting away the handful of perishable essentials in the fridge. “I can cook you something. Or order takeout.”

“How pedestrian.” He pushed off the counter, grabbed her forearm, and spun her around as he kicked the refrigerator door closed.

She bridled her defensive reflexes, flowing with his crisp actions as if they were dancing.

“I didn’t come for dinner.” He caught her by the back of the neck and with the two forceful strides that sent her feet scuttling, she allowed him to box her into a corner.

Pressing close, he clasped his hands to the counter on either side of her. Much closer than they’d been in the safe house. So close, the heat of him bore down on her, and she smelled him. Leather and musky salt. The rest was pure him. No cologne. No aftershave.

The scent she’d sucked in, face buried in one of his T-shirts, night after night, grieving, regretting, until the smell of him on the fabric had died too.

They were too close with him invading her space. If she could smell him, then he could smell her parfum de Icy-Hot. “I don’t like being crowded.”

His eyes locked on hers, hard as granite. “I remember. Frankly, I don’t give a damn what you do or don’t like.” The frost in his tone chilled her blood. “Tell me why you did it.”

Deep inside, she flinched but outwardly, she stilled.

“I made a mistake.” Her body drew tense when she needed to soften, raze her walls, exhume her suffering to abate his anger. But she couldn’t. “I’m sorry.” Such feeble words.

“The last night we were together…”

Cole had brought her home for one of many Sunday suppers with his family, hadn’t hesitated to throw the doors to his world wide open and usher her in. Whether he’d marry her hadn’t been a question, only when. But that night, his brother had sat at the table with them.

“My mother forced Ilya to sit with us because she loved you like a daughter,” he said. “I turned on my brother, defending you.”

Ilya had asked to be godfather to their half-breed children. Cole’s temper had flared and he had broken his brother’s nose before the second course had been served. Instead of excusing himself, Ilya had stayed, with his head held up, a snow-white napkin turning crimson as it soaked up his blood. Vodka had flowed heavily, and the conversation had turned to business.

“My father spoke freely in front of you. Because I trusted you.”

A meeting had been set for the heads of the Vory families. Ilya had voiced concerns about the Reznikovs not attending. No one ignored the call of the Bratva without consequences, but their father hadn’t wanted to drag the family into human trafficking.

“I let you in where no one ever got close. How could you?”

She wanted to uncork her remorse, let it overflow, but she was congested. Her throat, tear ducts, her very pores clogged long ago by heartache.

He snatched her by the arms. “Why?”