Page 98 of Under Arthur’s Protection

First, I draped the sheet over her, since she didn’t have my body heat any longer.

Second, I grabbed my clothes from the concrete floor. The shirt was caked with dried blood in areas, and the right sleeve was shredded where my arm had been cut open. The pants were torn at the knee. I dressed without a sound, eased the jacket over my forearm, and found my shoes by the door.

Outside, the morning was cold and overcast. The tree trunks and bushes screened the building from passing vehicles, but the dirt road showed through the bare branches. The Land Rover was tucked behind the building where I’d left it, and there weren’t any new tire tracks on the driveway.

I walked the perimeter. No footprints, no disturbances.

I stayed outside and took out my phone. Three messages.

The first was from Merlin, timestamped around four this morning. It included coordinates for a vehicle exchange in a town about twenty minutes south. A gray Peugeot would be waiting in an abandoned amusement park lot. The keys would be under the mat, with a duffel of fresh clothes on the rear seat. I was to leave the Land Rover with the keys in the sun visor, so it would be scrubbed and returned to its original rental location.

A weight lifted from my shoulders. I hadn’t doubted Merlin would come through for me, but having every detail arranged was a relief.

The second message was a follow-up from him: Don’t do anything stupid before I wake up.

The third was from Lance, checking in. His message gave no sign of how furious he must have been over my not calling last night, so Merlin may have briefed him.

I pocketed the phone and went back inside.

The supply shelf held a mix of canned goods, none expired. Behind a box of crackers, I found a kettle, a couple of mugs, and a jar of instant coffee grounds. I filled the kettle from the bathroom tap and plugged it in.

While I waited for it to boil, I stood at the table and glowered at the mess we’d left on it last night. My only other option in the little room was watching her sleep. One look and I’d want to climb back into that fucking bed with her.

So instead you’re making her coffee like she’s your girlfriend? Like this is a Sunday morning, and you’re going to bring her breakfast in bed?

I spooned grounds into the mugs. Before the kettle made enough noise to wake her, I shut it off and poured. I hadn’t spotted any milk, creamer, or sugar, so I drank the disgusting coffee black.

It was mission coffee. Fuck, it was worse than MRE coffee.

Galahad’s girlfriend would’ve had plenty to say about it. Grace would have explained which beans had been used to achieve the distinctly burned flavor and suggested life was too short for bad coffee.

Truer words, Grace.

Behind me, the bed creaked.

“Hey,” Gwen said, her voice soft and drowsy.

“Coffee’s on the table.” I gestured to her mug with my own, but didn’t turn around. I started piling up the first-aid wrappers. We’d have to clear the place before we left.

She padded across the concrete floor, and her arms slid around me from behind, her cheek pressed against my back between my shoulder blades. Her body fit against mine as it had all night.

I put my hand over hers and closed my eyes, that thing in my chest warming.

But that thing in my chest wouldn’t keep her safe. It was a liability I had to crush.

So I stepped forward, out of the embrace, and turned around, clutching my coffee mug in front of me like a shield.

She wore her shirt from yesterday, complete with my blood splatter. Only the shirt. Fuck me. The thin fabric clung to the natural slope of her palm-sized breasts, and her nipples were hard, which brought back visions of my mouth on her tits.

Had she pulled on her little black panties?

Stop it. Right now.

Too late. My dick was weighing in, and it was pretty sure she hadn’t.

“Instant.” I picked up her mug and held it out to her. “It’s terrible.”

She took it, but didn’t drink. She stared at me, her initial warmth fading into confusion. Her brows drew together as her gaze slid from my face to the table.