Page 39 of Retaliation

Moving to her kitchenette, he brewed a pot of coffee. The rich aroma mingled with the faint scent of her perfume, creating an oddly comforting blend in the air.

As he handed her a steaming mug, their fingers brushed briefly, igniting a spark of electricity that lingered in the space between them.

Not allowing his mind to head in that direction, he made himself comfortable in the armchair on the other side of the coffee table, cradling his own cup of coffee.

With each sip, she seemed to regain a measure of strength. The tension in her shoulders eased slightly as she nestled deeper into the warmth of the blanket. He watched her closely, his heart heavy.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he inquired softly.

She leaned forward and placed her empty cup on the table between them before crossing her legs and fidgeting with her fingers.

“It’s nothing,” she murmured without looking up at him.

“Poison, you and I both know that wasn’t nothing.

You had a fucking panic attack, and a bad one at that,” he whispered, his shoulders slumping as that helpless feeling took hold of his throat again. “How often do they happen?”

She didn’t answer him. Turning the blanket between her fingers, she stared at her hands—her knuckles a faint shade of purple. And he ran a hand over his face.

“Minke,” he begged, leaning his forearms on his knees. “How often?”

She tilted her head back, a phantom smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Fuck she was beautiful. Even with the ghosts still dancing in her eyes, still vulnerable. He would do anything to get the light back in them—to see her smile and have her say some witty shit that made him laugh.

“I haven’t had them in years,” she finally answered.

“What triggered this one?” He sat as frozen as a statue, afraid he might spook her or trigger another attack.

“I…” Her voice broke, and she had to clear her throat before continuing. “I got some news last night. I had my first attack in years last night, but not as bad as this one.”

“Has that got anything to do with the cut on your lip?” he pressed and made a silent promise to kill whoever the fuck was responsible for her pain.

She shook her head. “Not directly, no.” She pointed at her lip. “This was just an open challenge. He got a lucky

shot in.”

“I’m not going to pry,” He leaned back in his chair. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

“Thank you,” she muttered, looking at her hands again.

He rose out of his chair and took the mugs to the kitchenette. Stopping behind the sofa, he bent down and hugged her. He didn’t know why; he just needed to hold her. Pulling her head into his chest, he kissed her hair, holding her a moment longer, and straightened.

Shit, he was in over his head. This should never have happened. He should take a step back. But he didn’t want to.Women were trouble, that voice said again, forcing him to take a step toward the door.

“Call me if you need me,” he said, giving her shoulder a light squeeze.

“Stay,” she murmured, grabbing his hand and tugging it to her.

Every ounce of restraint and control left his body at the plea in her voice, and he allowed her to pull him to the couch—climbing over the backrest.

He sat next to her, pulled her into his arms, with her back against his side, and draped his arm around her shoulders.

“Get some rest,” he whispered against her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Her breathing evened out after a while, and the rhythm lulled him—his eyes struggling to stay open. He had tried everything to convince himself to leave. He told himself it would be best to sneak out, but he had never felt so much at ease. Darkness beckoned him closer, and he felt himself drifting toward it.

“How did you get into fighting?” she whispered, her eyes still closed. He had been sure she was asleep.

“Like most of us did,” he answered, that fucking voice telling him to be cautious, but he didn’t want to be.

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