Page 54

I turn, and there he is—Henry. Leaning in the doorway like some God damn storm just passed through him. Hair a mess, dust on his shoulders, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in the room worth watching.

“I’m not talking about that polished, cold version of you the rest of the world gets,” he says, voice low and ragged. “I mean the real shit. The stuff that claws at you from the inside. The stuff you bury so deep it’s rotting.”

He closes the distance, every step heavier than the last, and when he’s close enough to touch, he does—just a strand of hair, wrapped slow and possessive around his inked knuckle.

“You think I’ve forgotten how to look between the cracks in that armor,” he murmurs, his voice a rasp against the space between us. “But I haven’t. You’re etched into the fucking blueprint of me.”

His eyes don’t waver. Don’t blink. Just stay on me like the truth hurts less if you don’t look away.

“I know you better than you want me to. I know the only time the noise in your head shuts up is when you let yourself create.”

His hand slides down slow, fingertips barely grazing the curve of my jaw, tracing a path that sets my nerves aflame. That smirk—dangerous, daring, pure sin—pulls at something dark and desperate inside me.

“Let me in, sweetheart,” he breathes, voice rougher now, thick with need and promise. “Stop fighting the fire. You and me both know you weren’t made to smother those flames—you were born to burn.”

Henry Wilder always knew how to cut through my defenses with words that scorched. I’m panting, breath catching like he struck a match and held it right to the fuse inside me.

“You fight me at every turn,” he says, voice low and hungry, “and you have my whole damn life. So much that I crave it now—crave the lick of those flames you keep trying to snuff out.”

He unwinds my hair from his finger slowly, like he’s savoring the feel of it, then lets his hand trail downward—down the slope of my throat, the curve of my breast—until he stops right at the top button of my pajamas.

One touch—just one—and my body betrays me. My nipples tighten beneath the thin fabric, aching and impossible to hide.

Traitorous bitches.

He sees it, of course. The wicked, knowing smile he gives me makes my stomach coil tight.

“I fight you,” I snap, breath shallow, teeth clenched, “because I hate you.”

“No, little viper,” he murmurs, voice dark and full of promise, “we already settled this—you hate that you can’t.”

I swallow hard but refuse to look away. He wants me to flinch, to give him the upper hand, to admit he’s right. But if he’s waiting on that? He’s got a better shot at hell freezing over.

“Whatever you say, Sheriff.”

I let the words drop like a challenge, and he’s already moving—both hands slam down on the dresser behind me, boxing me in with his heat, his power, the barely-there breath between us like a wire stretched tight and ready to snap. His eyes flash—cocky, dangerous, like he’s already won this war.

“Then fucking prove me wrong,” he growls, low and deadly, voice like a promise and a threat rolled into one.

The journal presses hard against my ribs where I clutch it like a shield—like it can hold back the gravity pulling us together, like it can protect me from him.

We’re toeing the edge of no man’s land, and every cell in my body is screaming to jump. But I’ve spent years building Fort Fucking Knox between us. I can’t burn all that down now—can’t risk everything I’ve locked away—just because the soppy bitch in my panties wants to cry at the sound of his voice and come at the press of his hand.

“I’m not proving shit,” I snap, pushing past him, desperate for anything normal. I shove open the closet door and drop the journal on the shelf, fingers grazing folded jeans and stacked tees—anything to ground me, anything that isn’t him.

But it’s gone before I can catch my breath.

Henry’s hand is on the journal in a heartbeat tossing it over his shoulder onto the bed. Then he’s spinning me around, closing the space until my back hits the corner of the closet. He’s all muscle and heat and raw intent—my predator and the only one I’ve never had a prayer against.

“My turn, little viper,” he pants, voice thick with something dark and electric, looming over me like sin made flesh.

Even in the dim light, I can see it—that fire raging in his hazel eyes. And somewhere between the dresser and here, the bastard managed to lose his shirt. Now he’s all ink and olive skin, every inch of him coiled with heat and ruthless intention. He looks like exactly what he is—a commanding lawman and a God damn pussy-wrecker.

His eyes trail down my body—slow, deliberate, impossible to ignore. I shift, pressing my thighs together, desperate for even a sliver of relief. Of course, he catches it. Always does. His tongue flicks out, wetting that wicked bottom lip, and something inside him snaps.

Without a word, without warning, his hands clamp around the edges of my pajama top and tear.

Buttons explode off like bullets, clattering against the walls and spilling across the floor.