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There he is. My scary hitman.

The man whose hand hasn't left mine for more than five minutes since we arrived.

I turn my wrist carefully. The red marks from the rope are already turning ugly.

Roman's gaze drops to them. His expression changes.

I curl my fingers around his. “Don't.”

His eyes lift.

“He's dead.”

“I know.”

“You shot him.”

“I’m aware.”

“Three times.”

“Callie.”

“Just establishing facts.”

His jaw tightens.

I study him.

He's waiting for something. Even after everything in the woods.

“You think I'm going to freak out, don’t you?”

“You haven't yet.”

“Exactly.”

“That isn't reassuring.”

“Roman.”

He looks at me.

“I knew what you did.”

“You knew what I told you.”

“You're a hitman.”

His mouth flattens.

“I feel like that's a fairly descriptive job title.”

“You hadn't seen it.”

No. I hadn't.

I squeeze his hand. “I have now.”