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I close my eyes. My temples throb behind my eyelids. And finally, sleep pulls me under.

—

A click snaps me awake.

My hand is on the grip of my gun before my eyes are even open as I surge upward onto one knee, the safety clicking off under my thumb.

It's just the bathroom door opening, steam flooding out into the small room. I smell generic motel soap, the warmth from the bathroom seeping into the air around me.

Oksana steps out. She's wearing nothing but a short, thin white towel tucked tightly over her breasts, the hem barely reaching mid-thigh. Her light blonde hair is wet, combed back from her face, dark golden strands clinging to the pale curve of her neck and plastering against the tops of her collarbones. Water droplets glisten along the slope of her bare shoulders, catching the pale morning light filtering through the crack in the heavy drapes.

Her skin is flushed pink from the heat, her long legs bare and glistening, the curves of her body evident under the minuscule towel.

She's never looked more dangerous than she does to me in that moment.

She stops dead when she sees me with the gun in my hand. Her blue eyes go wide, her lips parting on a soft, startled gasp as her hand flies to the knot of the towel above her chest.

I freeze on one knee, my fingers locked around the grip of the pistol, my chest heaving as my breath catches in my throat. Blood roars in my ears, rushing straight from my brain to my cock with a force that makes my vision swim. She looks breathtaking. Fragile and damp and beautiful in the middle of this run-down room. An angel in the middle of hell.

And I want her.

Fuck, I want to cross the space between us, tear that towel away from her skin, shove her against the warped bathroom door, and bury myself inside her until neither of us can remember how we got here.

I hate her for it.

And I hate myself more.

20

OKSANA

Ifreeze in the doorway, steam still warm around my bare shoulders, my hand clutching the towel so tightly my knuckles ache.

Cormac is on one knee on the floor, his gun raised, his eyes locked on me so fiercely it makes my breath catch. For a second, I think he's going to shoot me. That this is it—he's finally decided I'm not worth the trouble, that the baby isn't enough to keep me alive. Whatever he felt for me has been burned away completely by what I've done.

Then I see the way his chest is heaving. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscle jumps beneath the stubble. I see his gaze drop from my face to my throat, to the damp skin above the towel and my bare legs, and then snap back up like he's forcing himself to look away.

He's not going to shoot me. But he wants to do something to me, and I don't know if that's better or worse.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, my voice coming out breathless and unsteady. "I thought I was being quiet. I didn't mean to wake you."

He doesn't lower the gun. He just stares at me, his expression unreadable, his knuckles white around the grip. "I'll be quick," I add, taking a small step toward the dresser where my clean clothes are folded. "I just need to get dressed, and then I'll⁠—"

My foot catches on the edge of the curled-up carpet, and suddenly I'm pitching forward, my arms flailing as I try to catch my balance. The towel slips, and I gasp as I feel the fabric start to slide down my chest. I hit the floor hard, my palms smacking against the rough carpet, my knees scraping against it. The towel is barely clinging to my body now, held up only by the way I've twisted my arm to keep it from falling completely.

"Fuck," I gasp, my face burning with humiliation as I try to push myself up without losing the towel entirely.

Then Cormac is there. One second he's on the floor by the door, and the next his hands are on my arms, pulling me upright. The gun is gone, and his grip is firm but not bruising as he steadies me on my feet.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough and low, and I can feel the heat of his body radiating against mine even though he's not quite touching me.

"I'm fine," I whisper, but I don't pull away. He's so close I can smell the faint scent of his cologne and the salt of his skin. His hands are still on my arms, his thumbs pressing against my bare skin, and I can feel the tension in his body like a live wire.

I look up at him, and the expression on his face makes my stomach clench.

He looks like he's in the middle of a war with himself, like he wants to push me away and pull me closer at the same time. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and his breathing is uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow bursts.

For just a second, I think he's going to kiss me.