We sat there, staring each other down, the smell of old beer and gun oil between us, and I let the last walls come down. No more case prep, no more lawyer tricks. Just me, and the man who saw every inch of me, flaws and all.
I thought he might get up and leave, but he just stared, jaw flexing, like the truth was something that could be chewed and swallowed if you worked at it long enough.
“I’m sorry,” I said, because it was the last card in the deck.
He didn’t say anything. But his hand, the one that always went for the gun, drummed once, then twice, and then lay flat on the table, as if making a peace offering.
I put my hand over his, fingers wrapping around the sinew and scar tissue. He didn’t pull away.
For the first time since the bakery, I let myself breathe.
***
The thing about a safe house is that it isn’t. Not for people like us. There was nowhere in this world you could put me and Seneca Wallace and expect the outside to stay out. But for a minute, with my palm over the wreckage of his, it was almost possible.
He gripped my hand like a drowning man, and I gripped back, the pain good and grounding. The table was between us, but we both knew it was just a line in the sand.
I drew in, and the movement felt like it pulled the whole room with me. “What if we didn’t have to pick?” I said. The words came out so softly that I doubted he had heard.
He did. He always did. “You mean what, you, me, and Catherine? Like a fucking throuple?” There was bitterness in the way he spat the word.
“Like a family,” I said. It sounded childish even to me, but I was past caring. “We’re all too broken to fit with anyone else. We’re the only ones who understand the rules.”
He looked away, out the slit window where the night was already creeping up the walls. “I don’t share,” he said. But his hand didn’t let go.
“Neither do I,” I countered. I used my free hand to drag his wrist closer, so our hands met in the dead center of the Formica battlefield. “But she already left us both. Why not build something better?”
He yanked his hand back, stood, and paced the small perimeter like a caged animal. I let him. I watched the way his back hunched, the way he flexed his hands open and shut, how every movement looked like it wanted to be violence but couldn’t find the right target.
“Do you love her?” he asked, eyes still on the cheap blinds.
I exhaled. “I do. And I hate her.” The second part came easier.
He turned, his whole body coiled and ready. “You hate me, too?”
I shook my head. “No. Not even a little.”
He stalked back, leaned across the table. “I should hate you.”
I reached up, touched the scar above his eyebrow. “You’ll get over it.”
He bared his teeth, then bit down on the urge to laugh. Instead, he grabbed my chin, thumb rough under my jaw. “What are you doing, Smart?” His breath was hot and sharp.
“Trying to see if you’ll hit me or kiss me,” I said, and let my mouth hang open just a little.
He closed the gap in a single, brutal motion. His mouth found mine, and it was nothing like I remembered. The kisses were wet, raw, off-target, full of teeth and tongue, and the taste of something that might have been blood or just whiskey. He bit my lower lip so hard I thought he’d take it off, then sucked it until the pain melted into want.
I reached for his cut, grabbed a fistful of leather, and yanked him closer, until the table threatened to tip. He twisted us both around, slammed me against the wall, and pressed his whole body into mine. I was small, but he made me feel smaller, like he could have folded me in half and stuffed me in his pocket. I let my hands roam, finding the holster at his hip, the hard planes of his chest, the tattooed arms that had once wrapped around Catherine.
He let his hand trace my face, not gentle, but careful, as if he wanted to memorize every edge before it was gone. He shoved my blazer off, and the sleeves caught on my wrists, pinning my arms. He held them there, used his thigh to keep my legs apart, and kissed down my neck, his stubble burning fresh tracks over skin that hadn’t healed from the last round of bruises.
“Fuck, you’re cold,” he said, voice muffled by my clavicle.
“Then warm me up,” I whispered, and ground my hips into his.
He tore my shirt open, buttons ricocheting off the baseboard. His hands were everywhere, palming my breasts through the thin mesh, sliding under my skirt, fingers pressing into the damp heat between my thighs. I gasped, and he smiled against my skin, tongue flicking along the pulse in my throat.
I wanted to say something clever, but all that came out was a moan and his name. “Seneca,” I breathed.
