“Don’t you dare go quiet on me now,” she says.
“I’m not quiet.”
“You got murder face.”
“I’m a murderer.”
“Later. Get my feet.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Don’t start acting trained now. It’s suspicious.”
I cut the straps at her ankles. She winces when she tries to move, and the sound she doesn’t make hits worse than any scream could.
I reach for her. “Can you stand?”
“I can dance in six-inch heels on three hours of sleep and bad tequila. I can stand.”
She tries.
Her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the floor.
For one second, she lets me.
Her body folds into mine, hot and shaking under all that fury. Her face turns into my neck. Her breath breaks once against my skin, small enough no one else would hear.
I hear it.
I feel it.
I would burn the whole city down for that broken breath.
Then she shoves at my chest. “No. Don’t make a thing of it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“You’re literally making a thing with your face.”
“My face does what it wants.”
“Tell it to stop.”
“Face, stop.”
She glares.
God, she is beautiful. Split lip, swollen cheek, fury bright enough to light the freezer. Mine in every dark, stupid place inside me, and not mine at all because I haven’t earned the right.
Another burst of gunfire slams into the crates behind us.
I pull her down and cover her with my body.
She goes stiff beneath me.
Not fear.
