Page 45 of Lone Spy

Ash's eyes open and lock on mine. He doesn't look dazed or groggy. He moves quicker than I can react, and suddenly I'm back in my body. It's slammed into the bed, his weight pressing down, my weapon above my head—wrist wrapped in the shackle of Ash's fist.

This is why I brought two.

My other hand still holds its blade, cold against my bared thigh and held in place by his muscled leg. But also positioned to wound. The thin fabric of Ash's gown is the only thing keeping my clenched fist from the warmth of him.

"What are you doing?" Anger roughens his voice. The sunlight touches his eyes, bringing the blue out of the black. The gown bunches around his shoulders, dropping down to caress my neck, exposing Ash's bare skin and the black tattoos twining over it.

"Did you know?" I ask, breathless under the crush of him. But it's not scary. Fuck. It's comforting. Tears blur my vision even as I inch my hand between us.

His eyes dart around my face, get stuck on my lips, make it back to my eyes. "Angela, if I'd known I wouldn't have allowed myself to be blown unconscious for you to save." His brow is furrowed, eyes tight. He doesn't understand why I'd ask such a stupid question.

"I meant about the ambulance."

His gaze turns molten, rage swirling in the oceanic depths. "No."

"And you're not just saying that because I have a blade at your balls?"

His eyes widen, realization dawning. Satisfaction thrums through me. I caught him off guard. Victory tastes sweet. I let the smile tugging at my lips have its way with my face.

Ash shakes his head, amusement lightening his gaze. He licks his lips and the humor in his eyes dies, reborn as something else. Something hot and forbidden. Something that lights up the electric grid between us. Sparks skitter over my skin making it impossible to think of anything but the way they burn so good.

His eyes stray to my mouth. He leans closer, lids lowering, black lashes fanning. I take in an unsteady breath, pulling air over my lips. Pulling him into them. Ash stops. My exhale finds his inhale. Neither of us moves.

My heart pounds against my breast, crushed by his chest. I swallow, incapable of speech. Incapable of anything but breathing. And I can barely do that. The last however many hours are gone. The disassociation that pulled me away from myself is gone. I'm here, Ash's weight holding me in place.

His jaw clenches tight, the muscles bunching under his stubble. His eyes leave my mouth and meet my gaze. He tenses, muscles tightening to move away from me. "Don't." The word leaps out of me.

Ash pauses.

"Don't go," I get out. "Please."

He stares down at me. Electricity sizzles. Then his weight comes back. And I sigh from the pleasure of it. He releases my wrist, brings both hands to my cheeks, his weight on me and his elbows. The blade is still caught between us, flat against my bare thigh, the metal no longer cold.

He holds me gently, gentler than you'd think hands that big and scarred could be. Our breaths mingle, the heat between our lips a living thing.

Camera flashes explode,leaving halos in my vision even behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses. I drop my head, leaning into Ash's side, hiding under his right arm. My silk scarf flutters in the rain-spattered wind.

"Angela!"

“How are you feeling?“

"Are you dating the prince!"

"How serious is it?"

Alesana's broad back wrapped in a navy suit jacket leads the way. Ash's left arm extends forward, blocking photographers crowding way too close. My heart rate doesn't spike. Fear doesn't flood me. This is nothing. Nothing compared to what I've been through.

I watch my booted feet cross the pavement, wet from the ever-present rain in this country. A country I'm set to leave today. The press tour continues on, and I'm not missing it. The police questioned me this morning—a male and female detective who assumed my innocence and had their assumptions confirmed.

I can't wait to get the fuck out of here. The scent of the hospital clings to me even though I'm showered and in fresh clothing. The only thing stronger than that antiseptic stench is Ash's scent—safe, close, necessary.

Alesana shifts to the right, pushing photographers away with his back, creating a path for me to where Chris stands next to the open door of an SUV. He's frowning, all focus on the crowd. Ash's hand drops to my lower back, warm through the tweed jacket I'm wearing, as he guides me into the vehicle.

The door slams, and for a brief moment I'm alone in the dark interior. The tinted windows mute the flashes and yells. I stare straight ahead, no expression on my face. I'm not offering those vultures anything.

Not that I have cause to judge. We all do what we need to survive. But I'm not carrion. Not yet, anyway.

Alesana and Chris get into the front seats and Ash slides in next to me, the photographers following him around the car and flooding into the street. Chris leans on the horn, inching forward. Ash's expression is grim as he watches.

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