Page 16 of Lesson In Forgiveness

After saying goodbye to his boss, Grit plugged his phone in to charge, then weighed up his options. Couch or bed? Completely different room? Just find a new hotel altogether?

The bed was out, he decided. While he probably wouldn’t sleep with the lunatic pixie next to him, he was tired enough to prove himself wrong. He didn’t fancy waking up with that knife jammed into his jugular.

Another room, even another hotel, wouldn’t deter her—not if she had a master key.

Which left the couch, because there was no way in hell he was going to disturb her when she was asleep; it was the only time she was quiet as far as he knew.

Grumbling under his breath, he started to walk out, then hesitated. Approaching Tabitha as though she was an unexploded bomb, he flipped the duvet over her from the shoulders down.

He left her alone, not shutting the door fully so the hallway light lit a swath across the carpet beside the bed.

As he sank onto the couch, stuffing a cushion under his head, he wondered what the hell he’d done to deserve this.

*

Tabitha

Boy, he was sleeping late.

Sitting cross-legged on the coffee table in front of the couch, Tabitha watched him for the umpteenth time. She liked how relaxed his face became, the muscles and lines easing into a peaceful mask. Like death, but without the deadness. A person really wasn’t attractive once the color leeched from their skin and it became rubbery.

His eyelashes were a rich, dark-tinted gold, more like the stubble on his cheeks than the hair on his head. She still thought he’d suit a beard rather than that stubble, but that was his choice. His skin was gaining a tan from all the hours he was putting in on the construction site—no office time for him here in Denver.

He was dangerous to her heart, and she had no idea why.

Emotions were useless, really. Deathtraps. Nuisances designed to lure people into a vulnerable state of mind. She’d had them once, before the incessant mindfucks and physical duress pushed her to the point of shutting them down once and for all.

Her baby half-sister, Caera, had failed the rabbit test as a child. Couldn’t stick the bundle of fur with a hypo full of poison, yet it was she who’d become the epitome of the saying, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

Rita scorned her; Caera tore her to pieces with a scalpel and years’ worth of pent-up rage.

Tabitha couldn’t be prouder.

Her gaze slipped from Grit’s face to his bare chest. Her appreciation for his half-naked form centered more around his prowess as a fighter than anything sexual. Lots of tanned skin pulled taut over hard muscles. Not perfect by any means, she thought, studying the scars on his upper arms and torso.

He was a warrior.

Such a shame he was bound by social etiquette—he’d have completely dominated their fight if he hadn’t been so concerned about hurting her. He had the bulk, the speed, and the strength; she was strong in her own right, just as fast, but had no qualms about annihilating anyone who stood between her and her goals.

“How long you gonna stare at me?” he demanded gruffly.

Huh. The huskiness of his barely-awake voice did strange things to her insides. It was the first time she’d hung around long enough to see him wake; after all, the secret was out, and he knew she watched him sleep on a regular basis.

She wasn’t going to tell him how regular.

“As long as it pleases me,” she crooned in response. Hmm, his eyes were a fascinating color when they opened; not quite green, not really blue or brown, but a strange mixture of the three. Little flecks merging into a miniature storm of…

Tabitha recoiled slightly, recognizing the look in his eye. Not as potent as her father’s lustful gaze, but the same… yearning. She reached for the knife tucked into the sheath at the small of her back, but Grit was so damn fast, even half-asleep, that he caught her off-guard.

With a grunt, he reached out and snagged her wrist, hauling her off the table. She barely got one foot on the carpet between the two pieces of furniture before he yanked her down on top of him.

What the fuck?

Panic flared as her breasts hit his chest, then compressed against it. She tried to free her wrist, but his grip was like a steel shackle. His other arm banded around her lower back; his legs hooked over hers and pinned them.

He had her immobile in seconds.

“Quit wriggling,” he ordered gently, giving her side a gentle pat. “Not gonna hurt you, little tiger. Settle down now.”

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