Scout’s POV
"Get your hands off me," I hissed.
My voice was too thin, a jagged scrape against the heavy silence of the bedroom. I didn't move. I couldn't. Nixon's arm was an iron bar clamped across my ribs, his broad palm splayed flat against my stomach. Every time he exhaled, his chest expanded against my shoulder blades, hot and thick through my thin shirt.
He didn't stir. A low, gravelly twitch rattled in his throat, his fingers tightening just enough to dig into my hip bone.
"Let go," I whispered, the words pressing flat against the dark green wall ahead of us.
Moonlight cut across the paint, a cold silver stripe that was rapidly thinning. Morning was bleeding into the room, turning the deep shadows into a dull, hostile grey. If he woke up like this, the trap would snap shut. He w
