Page 13 of Claimed By my Fake Husband

I'm here to keep her safe. That's the only priority that matters. She's in real danger, and I'm on the job.

She did nothing wrong tonight. I won't make her feel like the mistake was hers when it's mine.

I still my fingers, then slide them back, pulling away slowly.

"Hmm. Makes you wonder, doesn't it?"

I leave her right there on the edge. Better that than heartbroken.

5

Tess

My phone buzzes, dragging me out of a dead sleep. I silence the alarm before it can blare again.

Dismissing it, I check the time and curse my own decision to stay on schedule. Seven a.m., like clockwork.

You're supposed to be on "vacation."

I laugh at that, glancing at the empty side of the bed. Logan slept on the couch last night.

Logan...what the hell was that?

Just thinking about it makes heat pool low in my belly. The way he teased me. Touched me. I've never felt anything like it—actual, real arousal.

Not like that, anyway.

I'd started to think I landed somewhere on the ace spectrum, that maybe sex just wasn't in the cards for me. But this wasn't nothing. This was something.

A lot of something, apparently, when it comes to Logan.

Maybe he just hits some checklist buried in my subconscious that I never knew existed.

Except he also fled that closet like it was on fire and took the world's tiniest couch instead of sharing a bed with me. So whatever that was, I'm guessing it's not happening again.

Which is good. We don't need the complication.

Even if his voice is going to live rent-free in my head until the day I die.

God, he was so demanding. So dominating. Do I actually want that?

As shocking as it is, I think I do.

"You'd love to be my good girl."

A shiver rolls through me, and I shove the thought away hard. We are not doing that again. It was a mistake the first time.

I sit up, setting my phone on the nightstand so I can get dressed.

Another long day of nothing stretches ahead of me. Life on the run is not for me. I don't have a choice, though. Not until the trial. Not until every last Cilento is behind bars.

My phone buzzes twice—my signal for a text. I grab it off the nightstand and check the screen.

Andrew. From work.

That's weird.

We've worked stories together before—he sits two desks down in the bullpen—but as far as the paper knows, I'm on vacation.