Gunpowder and Desire
The air in the Maine safehouse had stopped smelling like a hospital. Gone was the scent of antiseptic and starched sheets that, for weeks, had reminded Esperanza of her own fragility. Now, the atmosphere vibrated with the smell of gun oil, burnt pine from the fireplace, and the musky cologne of Silas Thorne—a man who seemed to occupy every cubic inch of oxygen in the room.
Silas was not a man of many words; he was a man of high-impact strategies. His movements were those of a predator that had spent too long caged. As he watched Esperanza at the workbench, a mixture of pride and dark possessiveness rose in his throat.
She stood there, legs firmly planted, cleaning the barrel of a Glock 17 with icy precision. She was no longer the frightened girl he had rescued
