“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t.” The single word is sharp as a blade. “Don’t lie to me. Not after what just happened between us.”
I want to tell him. God help me, I want to tell him everything. But I can’t. Not without destroying everything I’ve worked so hard to build. Not without putting him in danger too.
“Some things are better left alone, Stryker.”
“Not this. Not when it’s between us.”
I close my eyes, trying to block out the hurt I hear in his voice. When I open them again, his expression has changed. Gone cold. Professional.
“Who’s after you?”
The question is quietly asked, but I hear the steel underneath. This isn’t my lover asking anymore. This is the operative. The protector.
And somehow that hurts more than anything else.
“I can’t do this.” I pull away from him, grabbing my clothes from the floor. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“Allie, wait?—”
But I’m already moving, desperate to put distance between us before I do something stupid. Like tell him the truth. Like trust him with secrets that could get us both killed.
I dress quickly, my hands shaking as I pull on my sweatpants. When I reach for the door, he’s suddenly there, blocking my path. Still naked, still beautiful, still everything I can’t have.
“Don’t do this,” he says quietly. “Don’t shut me out.”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
Because I’m not who you think I am. Because my father was a thief. Because the locket around my neck means something, and I have no idea what it is. But obviously he died because of it. And so might I.
And mostly because telling you any of this would be the most selfish thing I’ve ever done.
But I can’t say any of that. Instead, I reach up and touch his face, memorizing the feel of his skin under my fingers. “Walls exist for a reason.”
Then I slip past him and out the door, leaving him standing there in the lamplight, and I don’t look back.
Even though every step away from him feels like dying…
Chapter Twelve
Stryker
Frustrating. Annoying. Beautiful.
The three words cycle through my head on repeat as I watch Allie slip out onto the deck, her silhouette barely visible through the sliding glass door. She moves like smoke—silent, careful, always checking her surroundings. Even when she thinks she’s alone.
Especially when she thinks she’s alone.
The door alarm and motion sensors picked up her movement the instant she stepped outside—a soft buzz from my phone that I’ve been conditioned to notice even in the deepest sleep. Years of operating in hostile territory will do that to a man.
Not that she’s going anywhere. Her go bag is right where she left it. And there’s zero doubt her Glock is inside. Allie Johnson would never attempt an escape without her weapon. Especially not on a Colorado mountain night, wearing nothing but a T-shirt, sweats, and a pair of socks.
Still, the knowledge that she’s out there, exposed to the elements and whatever threats might be lurking in the darkness, makes something primitive and possessive claw at my chest.
Mine.
