Page 33 of Cold Mercy

It was intense because she threw a knife at my head, James. Our version of flirting is a blade missing my throat by a millimeter. And if that's the foreplay, I can only imagine what the main event will be like.

He laughs, sloppy and warm.

“Oh, come on, you can tell me. I saw the way you looked at her, how worried you were, and how you kept asking about her. You don’t do that.”

Fuck. Yeah, he's right about the last one. I don't do that.

I keep my face still.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I looked at her the way I look at anyone. And I asked about her because she seemed off, not because of anything else.”

He keeps drinking, faster now. Then his eyes sharpen despite the alcohol, and he points a finger at me.

“You know what it is? You two have the exact same attitude.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“You're both...prickly,” he says, gesturing vaguely. “Defensive. You both walk into a room like you're expecting a fight. And you both look at people like you're trying to figure out how to take them apart. It makes sense that you'd gravitate toward each other.”

I stare at him. It is a drunken observation, but it cuts close to the bone.

“Don’t give me bullshit, Thomas. I’m drunk, not stupid.”

I sigh. He won’t remember half of this, and even if he did, I hold more of his secrets than he does of mine.

“She’s… very compelling.” I say it low because it’s the closest thing to the truth I’m willing to admit aloud. “I like her in all that messiness she is.”

She stopped being a mission and became a craving, the kind of raw, uncut addiction I can't bring myself to refuse. And the detective in me knows I should run, but the man in me wants to burn.

He slams his glass on the counter.

“I knew it! I fucking knew it!”

“Careful,” I say quietly.

“Oh no,” he grins. “You, my friend, are screwed.”

I don’t respond because my phone vibrates.

A notification from the GPS tracker on Sophia’s car. It’s in New York, a few blocks from the bar. My stomach drops hard enough to piss me off.

“What the fuck?” The words slip out before I can rein them in.

“Something wrong?”

I’m already standing, jacket in my hand, eyes locked on the screen.

“I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll have the bartender call you a cab.”

I slide out of the booth, stride outside, and take the fastest route to the street she’s on. I’m fucking livid. And worried in a way I don’t remember signing up for. Before I get out of the car, I reach into the glove compartment, pull out the Glock, and tuck it at the back of my waistband. Because knowing her, she's getting herself into trouble with her three letters.

I circle around the block, keeping my pace easy. Every city has buildings no one technically owns. Old loading docks, half-abandoned warehouses, places the police pretend they don't see because dealing with them means work no one wants. I slip around to the back entrance, where the shadows swallow most of the alley.

And that’s where I see her. She's pressed against the corner of the service door, gun raised, eyes focused through the narrow gap in the metal. And fuck, she looks good like this. She’s so still I barely catch her breathing. I move in behind her without a sound. The second I reach her, I yank her wrist down and pin her to the wall beside the door, one hand around her forearm, the other on her shoulder to hold her in place.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed tonight?” I hiss into her ear.

She snaps toward me instantly, fury lighting her eyes like I flipped a switch.