Page 34 of The Vigilant

“Because he was part of your dad’s unit.”

Her expression blanched, but she recovered quickly. “I see.”

“They’re the best at what they do,” I told her low. “If anyone can find out what happened to Mara without mutilating half the city, they can.”

Her gaze narrowed. “We’ll see.”

Chapter Eight

Sutton

Ihad to figure out a way to get rid of Tynan. His physical presence, at least. The thoughts would be a separate battle, but at least those I didn’t have to worry about finding out my secrets or the lengths I was willing to go to save Mara.

But the man himself…the man who stood in the small kitchen of the townhome, cooking up something that smelled so fucking delicious, if it tasted half as good as it smelled, I might orgasm on the first bite.

Or maybe that was my body’s way of revolting against me—wanting a man who had no business in my life, let alone in my pants.

But damn, did he look good in the kitchen. A towel tossed over his shoulder. His white tee stretched over those muscles that had pinned me down like I was nothing more than a rag doll.

With all my self-defense and martial arts training, I shouldn’t be thrilled about being bested by a man, but part of me had to admit I was distracted earlier. The heat of him. The strength. A fight where I knew I wasn’t in danger. Not really. Maybe…maybe…I’d wanted to force him to subdue me. Maybe I’d wanted to know what it was like to be completely dominated, but also entirely safe.

It was something I’d never experienced before, but suddenly, because of his touch, I desperately wanted it.

But not as much as I wanted to find my best friend, I reminded myself harshly and scooted the stool closer to the counter.

Tynan paused and looked over his shoulder like he expected me to make a mad dash for the front door.

“Still here,” I quipped and took a swig of the root beer.

He grunted and turned back to the stove.

“So, what’s on the menu?”

“Fettuccine Bolognese,” he said and moved to the cutting board, sliding out a fresh loaf of bread from its crinkly brown bag.

I tipped my head. “Sounds fancy.”

“It was your dad’s favorite.”

I stiffened. “You know it doesn’t matter, right? I think I’ve seen more of you in the last three days than I saw my dad in my first sixteen years.”

He paused, the bread knife in his hand, his hold tightening on the handle. “That’s why I’m making it.” The blade fractured the crust. “So, you get to know him a little.”

I folded my arms, trying to suppress the shiver that went through me. “Why? He’s gone.”

The sound that came from him was dangerous, but I wouldn’t take it back. There was no point in getting sentimental about a man who was gone. Dad had the chance for me to know him. He’d chosen his country instead, and the worst part was, I didn’t hate him at all. No matter what I said. I hated myself for not being enough.

“Speak about your father like that again, and I’ll add a new tattoo to your backside,” he charged low and dropped a thick slice of bread on the napkin in front of me.

I glared at him. “You can’t spank me. You’re not my parent.”

He leaned a little farther across the counter. “It’s precisely because I’m not your parent that I’ll fucking whip your ass.”

Something hot and forbidden started to hiss and bubble between us. Something that seemed thermodynamically impossible to stop. Like pressing a match to gunpowder and willing it not to explode. The two of us together, it started something neither of us could will to stop. And that was why I needed him to leave me alone.

It took a second for both of us to realize it was the pot on the stove making noise. Tynan spun with a low curse to handle it.Good. I grabbed the bread and took a massive bite, pressing the backs of my knuckles to my cheeks to see if they were as hot as they felt.

“So, where’d you learn to cook?” Seemed like a safe topic.

---