Page 70 of Protect Thy Enemy

“I did.” My hand tightens around the doorknob, knuckles whitening as I cling to the last thread of composure. “Contrary to belief, my mama did teach me manners.”

Her cheeks are still faintly flushed, her chest rising and falling in a way that makes it hard not to notice the shift of fabric with each breath. The urge to close the distance between us, to bury my hands in her hair and claim her lips, is almost unbearable.

“Did you like it?” she asks, her voice softer now, almost cautious.

“Yeah,” I manage, though the word comes out lower than intended. “It was good.”

“Good,” she murmurs, her lips curving slightly. It’s not quite a smile but close enough to knock something loose in me.

I should leave. I’ve thanked her. There’s no reason to stand here, gripping the doorframe like a lifeline while my gaze keeps flickering to the hollow of her throat, the faint sheen on her skin.

But my feet don’t move.

The silence stretches, and her gaze drifts to my hand still gripping the door. Her tongue flicks out, wetting her bottom lip, and I feel it everywhere, sharp and hot.

She’s too close, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to take the three steps between us, how I could press her backagainst that bed, spread her thighs, and hear her beg my name like she did through the door.

“Holden?” Her voice snaps me out of it, her brows knitting slightly in question.

I clear my throat, straightening. “I should let you rest.”

Her head tilts slightly, studying me, and I can’t help but notice the faint flush crawling down her neck. My gut twists, caught somewhere between guilt and hunger.

“Thanks for saying thanks,” she says, her voice light but edged with something I can’t quite name.

I nod stiffly. “Good night, Rookie.”

My voice is clipped, and I force myself to turn, the door closing softly behind me.

The moment I’m in the hallway, I press my back to the wall, exhaling a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

All I can see is the way she looked at me, the way her skin glowed in the low light. My body aches with tension, and the tightness in my sweats is a painful reminder of how badly I want her.

I run a hand over my face, clenching my jaw. I should be disgusted with myself. She doesn’t want this, doesn’t want me.

I shove off the wall, dragging myself down the hallway, knowing I’ll spend the rest of the night fighting off the memory of her hearing my name on her lips, knowing damn well there’s nothing I could do about it.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Arden

Agent Grant is in a fouler mood than usual this morning.

The kind of mood that makes everyone instinctively stay out of his way. Everyone except me, apparently, because his avoidance feels intentional and calculated. It’s like he’s punishing me for a crime I don’t remember committing.

I thought his thanking me for the meal was some sort of white flag, a silent adamance that whatever tension between us would be ignored temporarily. At least for the duration of the mission.

But that white flag seems to be tinged in red, waved with an air of irritation and annoyance.

He doesn’t meet my eyes, not even in passing, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting. The absence of his usual clipped remarks and withering stares only sharpens the edges of this strain between us.

But it’s not just his mood that lingers in my mind. It’s last night.

The way he stood in the doorway, shadowed but not unseen, his voice a low, unrelenting snarl that wrapped around me and squeezed tight. My breath had caught in my throat, my pulse kicking into a frantic rhythm as if my body knew something my brain refused to acknowledge.

And for a fleeting, treacherous moment, I thought I saw… something. Something was straining against his sweatpants; his figure was mostly hidden, but his presence was all-consuming. Heat creeps up my neck at the memory, shame mingling with something more dangerous. I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.

But I am.

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