He was rough in the places that needed talking to—jaw clenched, hands possessive—then tender where the night asked for mercy. He tasted like whiskey and river-swept grit, like the promise of danger and the warmth of home. I loved him with a ridiculous, futile fierceness that made me reckless.
Halfway through, when the heat had wrapped us like a skin, he pulled back and pressed his forehead to mine. For the first time in days he looked afraid in a way that made me ache.
“They want leverage,” he said quietly. “They tried to make me one of their trophies so we’d blink. I let them cuff me because I needed to get access—get the drives, the lists, anyone who could be a link. I thought I could crawl back out. I almost didn’t.”
My hand went to his cheek; I felt the start of a bruise, then the o
