The motel room is silent except for the soft hum of the ancient air conditioner and Mickey’s breathing, low, even and deep.
Kaycee sits in the chair, knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them like a shield. She tries not to look at him. She really tries.
But her eyes betray her.
Her gaze slips again to the bed. Mickey lies there, shirtless, the faint sheen of sweat highlighting every hard line of his chest. Broad shoulders, a defined abdomen, a line of ink running down his ribs like a secret whispered in skin.
She swallows, hard.
This is insane.
She doesn’t even know him. Barely knows his real name. He’s a wanted man. A fugitive. The kind of man she’s trained to avoid, to sedate if necessary. She should be reporting him to command, not... imagining things.
Yet here she
