Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t.
But the thought is there anyway, bright and insistent. His mouth on mine. The heat of him. The way his restraint might finally crack. I grip my mug tighter.
Sin’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Rowan.”
I look up.
His eyes are steady, but his jaw is tense, like he’s fighting something too.
“What?” I whisper.
“We’re going to figure out who did this,” he says. “And we’re going to stop them.” It sounds like a promise.
I nod, because my voice is gone.
He picks up his mug again, taking a sip like he didn’t just rearrange my entire emotional infrastructure. I watch him over the rim of my coffee. He’s gorgeous. Yes. But more than that, he’s solid.
He’s smart. And focused. And somehow, he’s the only person in the world right now who makes me feel like I can breathe. Which is ridiculous, because I met him yesterday. But the truth doesn’t care how long you’ve known someone. It just shows up. And right now, the truth is this.
I want to kiss Sinclair Hawthorne.
And I need him to keep me alive. Those two things should not exist in the same sentence. Yet here we are.
SEVEN
SIN
The safe house has a way of shrinking time. No schedules. No traffic noise. No city hum. Just trees outside the windows, a quiet that presses in, and the steady awareness that someone out there wants Rowan afraid enough to stop talking.
Rowan sits on the couch with her legs tucked under her, coffee mug cradled in both hands like it’s an anchor. Her hair is pulled into a loose knot, but strands keep slipping free and brushing her cheek. She should look disheveled. Instead, she looks like temptation wearing a casual outfit.
I stay standing near the window, posture relaxed on purpose, attention split between the tree line and the woman behind me. It’s a bad equation. She’s safe here.
I’m not.
I can do a perimeter check in my sleep. I can sweep rooms, lock down exits, map escape routes, monitor cameras, all without breaking a sweat.
What I can’t do with the same level of ease is stand in a warm living room with Rowan Sands watching me like she’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or a comfort.
Or both.
“Okay,” she says, drawing out the word. “So what do we do now?”
“Now we wait,” I answer.
Rowan makes a face. “I hate waiting.”
“I know.”
She tips her head, eyes bright in a way that’s always a little too sharp. “How do you know?”
“Because you’ve been vibrating since you woke up.”
“I have not.”
“You have.”
Rowan huffs. “Fine. Maybe I have. I’m not built for captivity.”
“This isn’t captivity.”
“It feels like it.” She gestures around the safe house. “I can’t leave. I can’t call my friends. I can’t check my usual sources. I don’t even have my phone, which was basically a limb until it betrayed me.” Her voice goes tight at the end.
I don’t soften. Softening gives people permission to think you’ll bend. But I do step closer, just enough that she can feel me without me looming. “Cal’s tech team is building your new digital life,” I say. “We’ll get you clean accounts. Your sources can reach you through controlled channels.”
Rowan’s mouth twists. “Controlled channels. Sounds like a cult.”
“It’s security.”
“It’s a cult with better branding.”
A laugh almost gets past my guard. Almost. Rowan watches my face like she’s hunting for cracks. I keep mine locked down.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs, pretending she’s casual. “Nothing. Just… you’re very serious.”
“I’m paid to be.”
“Do you ever turn it off?”
“No.”
Rowan’s gaze drops to my hands, then my forearms, then back up, and my body responds like it’s been waiting for her attention.
Heat. Awareness. A pull.
I shift my weight to keep myself grounded. This is the problem with being holed up. There’s no distance. No buffer. Just hours stacked on hours, and every time she looks at me I have to remind myself that desire is not a reason to act.
Rowan leans back into the couch, the movement slow and deliberate. Not flirtation exactly. More like curiosity testing the edges. “So,” she says, voice light, “how do we pass the time?”
My mind answers before my mouth can. With your legs around my waist. With your mouth on mine. With your laughter turning into that soft sound women make when they stop pretending they aren’t hungry. Dirty thoughts. Unhelpful thoughts. Thoughts that would break every rule I live by.
I keep my face neutral. “We keep you busy.”
Rowan’s brows lift. “Busy how.”
I don’t miss the way her gaze flicks to my mouth. I also don’t miss the way my pulse spikes like I’m a rookie. “Routine,” I say. “Food. Rest. Basic training. Situational awareness. We run drills.”
She stares. “Drills.”
“Simple ones,” I add. “If something happens, you don’t freeze.”
Rowan’s lips part, then press together. “I’m not freezing.”
“You already froze last night.”
Her eyes sharpen. “When?”
“When you got that text. Your face went blank. You stopped breathing for a second.” Rowan’s posture tightens, like she hates that I saw it. I keep going anyway. “You’re brave,” I say. “Brave people still freeze when they get hit from the side.”