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“Deep in the government.”
“Just your word?” She snorted. “And I’m supposed to just believe you because?”
“Because I haven’t done anything to you.”
YET.
The word gnashed at my brain, but I pushed on...
“Because I saved you. Because deep down you know I’m not the man from your board.” Words to convince us both.
“Then why are you following me?” She stood there, unmoved.
“Because you’ve got something—”
“The knife isn’t yours. It belongs to the Cucitrice.”
“The who? Wait.” I ran down the translation. “Seamstress?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged, but at least she also lowered the gun until her hand rested on her knee, the muzzle pointing at the floor.
“She did this.” I raised my arm, showing her the black design.
“Yeah.” Her cheeks puffed out. “It’s not completed.”
The red tide rose, and my muscles fairly crackled with energy; I choked out the necessary question while trying not to seem desperate. “Can you stitch?”
Zara swung her gaze to my face. “No. Why would I? Seriously, neither of us knows what that does.”
It does something?
Of course, it does. What had I been thinking?
“You’re right.” I subsided, listening to my heart slow. Cautiously I pushed up out of the chair. “My name is Val by the way. Valor Lacroix in full.” I pointed to her bathroom.
Distracted, she nodded, her shoulders relaxing further.
It took four steps. Four steps to grab her wrist, spin her so that her back was against my body and she was caught caged in my arms. Too close to kick me, her arms immobilized, Zara Carter had just lost control.
I squeezed, grinding her wrist as she tried to hang onto the gun. She stomped down on my foot, and I swallowed back the groan. No heels, I’d live. Fair’s fair though, and I mercilessly tightened my grip deliberately, crushing her flesh against her bones.
With force, I knocked her arm against her thigh, using pain and the weight to shake the gun loose.
A cry of frustration and distress pushed past her lips, but she was compelled to drop the gun.
I kicked it under the bed as it hit the floor—away from her, I didn’t need one.
Zara started thrashing, a cat in a bag refusing to drown.
I jerked her back against me. “First rule,” I ground out next to her ear. “People who point guns at me don’t usually get to live.”
She struggled harder, and I could feel the heat of her skin through my shirt, the curves of her bounce against my body. I so didn’t need this. Didn’t need my cock thickening as her fight rode my groin.
“Shhh.” The gravel in my breath was no longer irritation. “I’m not going to kill you.”
She opened her mouth.
“Uh-uh-uh.” The same husky tone. “Screaming would be stupid.”
