Page 24 of The Sniper

All I knew was that he was out now.

They let him go. Because of me.

And I hadn’t stopped thinking about him since.

I wasn’t supposed to feel like this. I was raised to wait—for love, for marriage, for the right kind of man who’d pray with me in the morning and hold my hand through the hard parts. And I still hoped for that, deep down. A good Christian husband. A home full of peace. The kind of love my mama said was built on faith and respect.

But none of the men I’d met had ever made my heart race. None had given me the butterflies I’d heard whispered about in dorm rooms and women’s Bible studies.

So I’d guarded myself. Stayed pure—not just in body, but in heart and spirit, too. I didn’t let men in. Not emotionally. Certainly not physically.

And it scared me how easy it was to forget all of that the second this Dane guy looked at me.

He’d touched something in me last night. Woken something. And now I didn’t know how to put it back to sleep.

The screen door creaked.

I stiffened.

My heart thudded loud in my chest as I turned, and there he was.

Leaning in the doorway like he’d never left. That same black T-shirt clinging to his chest, jeans hanging low on his hips. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses.

He looked like sin and summer heat had made a pact.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I said, breath catching.

He tilted his head slightly. “You always greet heroes like that?”

I crossed my arms, reluctant. “I told them you were a hero.”

His mouth twitched, like he was waiting for the but.

“But that doesn’t mean I know what to do with you,” I added, quieter now. “Or that it was easy to say.”

He studied me, that unreadable stare settling on my face like he was trying to pick me apart piece by piece.

“You kissed me,” I said, heat rushing to my cheeks. “Right after you killed a man.”

“I did both for the same reason,” he said simply.

My breath caught. I hated that it made sense.

He stepped into the kitchen, letting the screen door shut behind him. The smell of him hit me first—clean, masculine, a trace of motor oil and warm leather.

I folded my arms, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “Why are you here?”

He took off the sunglasses and tucked them into his shirt collar. His eyes were clearer in the sunlight—brown, sharp, focused like a blade. “Because I wanted to see if you meant what you said.”

“Which part?”

“That I wasn’t a criminal.”

I swallowed. “I meant it.”

He nodded once, like he’d expected that. “Good.”

Another beat passed. He looked around, taking in the kitchen. “They fixing things today?”

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