Chapter 9

NINE

H is mouth was soft and warm. As she playfully teased them with her tongue, his surprise shifted into something else—something she knew all too well—desire. On a satisfied-sounding exhale, he reciprocated her intentions, parting those luscious lips and kissing her back.

Too long . It had been too long since someone had touched her, held her, kissed her.

And it had been him—he’d been the last to make her feel like this.

If not for his wound, if not for this crazy night of being shot at and on the run, she might have slid on top of him. Undid his belt and removed his pants. Kissed her way down his chest, his belly, and lower.

But even as he cradled the back of her head, pressing their mouths closer, she knew she had to end this. They weren't out of the woods, and she had a confession…

She broke away, gripping his wrist to untangle his hand from her hair. Her other pressed against his chest to pin him on the comforter. “You're in no condition for—” she gestured at the two of them and the bed—“this. We need to get you bandaged up."

He sighed. "No fair teasing me like that, luv."

“You can handle it,” she said.

He chuckled.

Repositioning herself, she once again used the magnifying glass to examine his wound. It was deep and ugly. Carefully, she probed with a finger this time, doing her best to check for sharp edges without accidentally shoving any shards deeper into the mistreated tissues.

He was tough, she'd give him that. Still, he shoved a large roll of gauze between his teeth and bore down on it.

“I need to tell you something,” she said, keeping her focus on the wound and not allowing her eyes to travel farther south.

He made a low guttural noise around the gauze in what sounded like encouragement for her to continue.

“When you left me at the car, I thought maybe you’d changed your mind and called the authorities.” He granted again, this time in disbelief, and she held up a finger. "Given our history, can you blame me? You originally lied to me, gained my trust, then threw me in jail.”

He gave a conciliatory nod, watching her closely.

She refused to meet his gaze, soaking a cotton pad with antiseptic and dabbing it on the jagged edges of the cut. "I followed you to the building to see what you did. Then I followed you back to the car to see your reaction when I wasn't in it.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw him raise both brows. He made another of those noises, and she peeked at him. He blinked, his expression asking for more.

More what? More of a confession? An apology for doubting him? She had neither.

Wiping away the last of the blood, she dumped the first aid kit upside down. She hadn't stitched anyone up in a long, long time, but there was no getting around it. Opening a package with curved needles, she selected a medium gauge. She had no idea if that was right or not.

Taking it into the bathroom, she dumped alcohol on it and hoped that was enough sterilization to do the job. She caught sight of her face in the mirror—shadows under her eyes, the flush on her cheeks. She hadn't slept, and she’d kissed Truman. Two completely different things, yet they both seemed to be more significant than she wanted to admit.

Could she chalk up her irrational behavior of mauling the poor man while they were on the run from the FBI and he was wounded to her chronic exhaustion?

Once she did get some sleep, maybe the nightmares would leave her alone. She was with him, she'd cleared the air, and she’d kissed him.

The look on his face back at the car, when he’d thought she was missing, had told her what she needed to know. He hadn't jumped to the conclusion that she'd run away. Just the opposite. He assumed their pursuers had caught up with them and taken her into custody. That she had convinced them he was nowhere to be found and they hadn't stuck around to search for him.

She'd heard him swear that he would come for her. He would prove she was innocent.

Right now, he was the only man in the whole world she could trust.

The realization made her weak. Something she’d done tonight had convinced him she wasn't a criminal. She wasn't sure what it was, but for now, it was enough.

Returning to the room, she noticed him watching her with that closely guarded observation of his. Goosebumps rose on her skin, remembering the way he'd always observed her every move as if she were a ballerina on stage that he couldn't tear his eyes away from.

Her hands were clammy, and she told herself it was because she was about to attempt to stitch him up, not because he looked as if he wanted to throw her on the bed and strip her bare.

She held up the needle like a shield. “I’m not going to lie. It's gonna hurt."

His normal cheekiness was gone, but he managed a wink, anyway, telling her he could handle it.

"I think I prefer this version of you," she said, trying to keep things light. "Gagging you has its benefits."

Humor and something more lit his eyes. He removed the gauze, swallowed, and said, “Remember the rules?”

How could she forget? With him, it had always been tit for tat. Anything she wanted to do to him—in bed or out—she’d had to be willing to let him do to her. “Quite well, sunshine , but I believe you owe me."

He perked up. "Do I?"

She threaded the needle and took a deep breath, prepping herself. “Yes. Once you're feeling better and we're out of this mess, I expect to see you on your knees, begging me for mercy."

His expression clouded, realizing she was using his game against him. “About that. Seems I owe you an apology."

She held up the needle with an evil gleam in her eye. "I don't want an apology. I want to hear you beg.”

Before he could respond, she used her fingers to draw the two sides of the wound together and started sewing.

It was an effective means to shut him up. He shoved the gauze back between his teeth and grunted as the needle slipped through several layers of his skin and tissue.

He kept quiet after that and became so still she knew he was watching her with that ardent intensity again. She focused on keeping her stitches steady and even. He would have a scar, no doubt about that, and she hoped he thought of her every time he looked at it.

When she was finished, he sat up and went to the bathroom. She gathered the supplies and saw him examining her work in the mirror. “Nice job," he said.

His flat tone worried her. She closed the kit and walked into the cramped space, surprised to see him bracing himself on the vanity.

“Hey." She ran a hand down his arm. "The worst is over. I didn't hurt you that bad, did I?"

It seemed to snap him out of his thoughts, and he straightened. "Do I want to know where you learned to do that?"

"Mum taught me."

That seemed to explain it. He gave a curt nod. “I’m going to take a quick shower. You watch the monitors. If you see anything out of the ordinary, you yell at me, understood? "

For a second, she was seven again and her mother was saying a similar thing to her. It had been the first of many times when Catherine had used her as a lookout over the years. "I know the drill," she told him.

She washed in the kitchen while he grabbed clothes from the closet. She returned to the desk and monitors with a bottle of water and some crackers. Behind the closed bathroom door, she heard the shower come on.

She longed to lie down and close her eyes. The black-and-white screens didn't help, boring her into a numb state as she heard him whistling while he washed.

Her mind wandered to him naked under the spray. If anything, his body had become more muscular than she remembered. How she longed to run her fingers over his strong arms, his ripped abs, lower.

But his usual easy smile lacked wattage these days. His casual confidence seemed a bit more forced. Had she caused that?

She guzzled the water and stuffed her mouth with the snack. Her stomach gurgled. Shutting down her imagination, she refocused on the monitors.

A rabbit hopped across the front lawn. In the distance, she heard a siren, then another, and everything in her iced over. Keeping an eye on the view, she grabbed the sneakers she’d worn on the way there and tugged them on. Damn, her ankle was swollen slightly, and the bandage didn’t do much to pad her cut.

Were the sirens getting closer?

All of her senses narrowed to her hearing, trying to figure out if they were or not. Panic fluttered in her chest. The crackers and water formed a brick.

Rushing into the other room, she grabbed the backpack from the hook and started shoving things in it from the cabinets. Nothing too heavy, but things they could eat quickly and easily—nutrition bars, bags of nuts, dried fruit, candy. Then she raced back to the bedroom.

Outside of a single car that pulled alongside the curb down the street—the owner appearing drunk when they left the vehicle and dropped their keys on the sidewalk without bothering to pick them up—there was no other movement.

Pacing the small apartment, she kept close to the windows and listened. The sirens were fading away.

She sunk into the chair at the desk, huffing out a breath. Glancing at the closed bathroom door, she thought about Truman again. How did he live like this? Not that he was on the run all the time, but he was always on alert. He pretended to be someone he wasn't. He kept his guard up at all times.

She rubbed her eyes, weariness overcoming her once again after the spike of adrenaline. Resting her head on her hands, she stared at the screens, fighting to keep her eyes open.

She failed because the next thing she knew, Truman was shaking her awake.

“They found us.” He smelled of shampoo and soap, his hair wet and his eyes fierce. He lifted her out of the chair and shoved the backpack into her arms. "We have to go. Now."

Without waiting for her reply, he tugged her behind him, and she was once more on the run before she was even fully awake.