His gaze found hers in the darkness. “The moment I heard she was compromised, I drove like hell, but . . . I didn’t get there in time.” He turned to face the fire. “I never get there in time.”
It was like the key piece of a puzzle falling into place, a quiet, satisfying click that only she could hear. “That’s the dream? The reason you can’t sleep?”
He bit his lip and nodded slowly, but when he turned back to her it felt like the whole world got very slow and very still and even the flames in the fireplace stopped dancing. “It used to be.”
She swallowed hard. And knew—“Now it’s me?”
“And now it’s a million times worse.”
She felt his hands on her legs, a slow, steady motion as his palms slid up and down her thighs, over and over, holding her atop him in a gentle rocking sway.
“They didn’t catch me.” Zoe pressed down, wanting him to feel her weight. “I’m here.” She cupped his cheek and he turned to kiss her palm. “I’m real. I’m alive. They haven’t caught me. They haven’t killed me.”
That was supposed to be the end. Period. But she watched him pull back, retreat into whatever shell they hand out at Spy Guy School as he said, “Yet.”
Then he rolled and flipped her onto her back, but didn’t linger. He just stood and walked away.
A moment later, she saw a candle flicker to life; she heard the shower start, and all Zoe could do was lie there, waiting for her heart to stop pounding.
Him
Sawyer stood in the bathroom for a long time, watching steam collect on the mirror, building from the outside in until all that remained was a small speck of clear glass, but even that was too much because Sawyer hated what he saw. He hated how he felt. And, most of all, he hated what he’d almost done.
He’d almost killed her.
And then he’d almost kissed her. Maybe more. And, oh, how he had wanted more.
He remembered the feel of her smooth legs under his palms, the weight of her body as she straddled him. Had she noticed what she did to him or was she too busy almost dying? He hoped like hell she never knew.
He felt the room go cooler—clearer—as the steam escaped, and he turned to see her standing in the open doorway, tentative, like she might be trespassing where she wasn’t wanted; totally, blissfully unaware of the fact that he wanted her way too much.
“It’s not your fault.” She inched toward him.
He studied the last bit of his reflection in the mirror. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said again, like maybe he hadn’t heard her, like those words wouldn’t haunt him for the rest of his life. “I’m here. And I’m okay. See?”
Then she brought his hand to her chest and pressed his palm against the thin cotton of the T-shirt so that he could feel her beating heart.
“See? It’s beating. It’s . . .” But she trailed off and he watched her face change as if that fact surprised even her. “It’s beating. It’s okay.”
But the T-shirt was so old and so worn and the steam was so heavy that the cotton clung to her and he could actually see the outline of the scars he couldn’t stop his fingers from tracing. He felt her start to pull back, but he wouldn’t let her—couldn’t let her go.
“Stay where you are.” He was turning, pressing her against the counter while his finger carried on its path. “I don’t care how you got them. I just know they made you who you are and you’re beautiful. They’re beautiful. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen . . .” His finger followed the rough line between her breasts, and he felt the moment her breath changed to something deeper.
“I’m not ashamed that I have scars. Or embarrassed—”
“Good.”
“But they scare me.” Her voice was so soft he wasn’t sure if she was admitting something to him or to herself. “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know what tried to kill me or how I survived it. So they scare me. Because . . . what if it tries again?”
And something about the words—the frailty of her voice and the subtle tremble of her lip made him snap. “Nothing’s going to hurt you. Do you hear me? I won’t let it. Lady, nothing’s going to hurt you ever again. Never. I will die before I let that happen.”
There were tears in her eyes, but she nodded and bit her lip, and it broke him—his will and his resolve. So he gripped her tighter—pulled her closer. Even though he knew he should stop. He had to stop. But no one told his hands that because the left one snaked around her waist and was changing the angle, tilting her hips toward him, while the right followed the lines of her scars.