Page 3 of Twins for the Enemy

"Controlling like a kidnapper," I grumble. I eye the door. I could tell him to screw himself and just leave,but his kindness has been like a forest fire, where I can experience its warmth, but I'm wary of any oncoming danger. And Lord knows I've put myself in danger enough times tonight.

What's one more?

I offer him my bandaged hand. He takes it, just as gently as when I thought he was a velvet snake.

"So, what happened that you don't want the police called?" he asks, coiling the wrap around my wrist. I wonder if he can see my pulse as his fingertips graze above it. My breathing is shallow. I need to focus on something else. I glance to the right of him. A night table has a leather pouch on it. I pick it up with my other hand. It's soft from being handled so often. Something square and with a decent heft is inside it.

"Are you always so difficult?"

I slide a finger into the pouch, wiggling it enough to open it wider. When I can slide in two fingers, I push them inside, widening the bag enough to make a hole the size of a quarter. The man tucks the end ofthe wrap underneath where it encircles my wrist. He quickly grabs the bag, jerking it hard enough that the object falls out onto my lap.

It appears to be an antique. It’s a heavy brass box with a thick clasp. With both of my hands free, I flip up the clasp and open it.

It's a compass. It's much less elegant than the exterior, but the needle is engraved with a kraken.

"It's pretty," I say. "Was it your father's?"

"It could have been my father's if he started having children when he was in his 80s." He pauses. "It's from the 1910s."

"So, just one of those things that rich people buy to show how cultured they are?"

"Oh, I don't want people to think I'm cultured." He smiles. My heart beats harder. "They might want to talk to me about Russia's October Revolution or neoclassical economics."

"You seem to be talking a lot now," I say, running my fingers over the circular glass of the compass. It's lessabout its smooth texture and more about giving my hands something to touch that isn't him.

"And you do seem to enjoy being difficult."

"Only when I'm around difficult men."

He shrugs. "It seems a shame to change because of the people around you."

My jaw tightens. It shouldn't hurt my feelings—he's just joking around—but he cut to the core that I'm so easy to read.

I shove the compass back into its pouch. "That seems like a natural thing to me."

He tilts his head, watching me. "You should know... if you're running from an abusive situation, I know some charities that can help. You don't need to deal with it on your own."

I stare down at the pouch. I never considered he'd think I was fleeing from a situation where I was a victim. Maybe he can't read me that easily.

"I don't—" I stop. "Why would you think that?"

"You mumbled the name Neal a few times," he says. "You didn't say it in a happy way. You sounded like you were angry at him."

I press my lips tightly together. I've been trying to keep the memories at the edges of my mind, but they're pushing through now. I remember Neal's dry hands as I dragged him out of the building. I remember Neal telling us that we need to go our separate ways to confuse the police. I remember seeing my old boss, our eyes meeting as he stood on the other side of the street. I remember I forced myself into my car and drove straight into this infuriating man.

I need to call Neal. I need to check on him. I check my pockets. My phone must be in the car. They would've taken it off the road by now.

I'll turn myself in. I owe Neal that. They won't dig any further since my boss saw me, and he'll gladly throw me under the bus. It's not like I'd planned anything for my life—no dreams of a family, a career, or trips to Bali. You can't throw away a future that is less solid than smoke.

"You have the same bruise as me," the man remarks, touching along my clavicle. I glance down. The seatbelt left a noticeable mark there, but more than that I can feel the heat of his fingertips left on me. I want to keep his hand there, spread it out, and feel it over my chest. I want him to press down, to push in, to give me new skin just like that snake.

Once I turn myself in, I'll be a virgin into my late twenties or maybe my thirties. When I finally get out and start dating, I'll have to tell men I've never had sex. They'll question why. I'll have to tell them the truth—arson, prison, the usual reasons—or I'll have to lie, and then a halfway decent relationship would start with a lie. At some point, I'd have to be honest, and if I'm ever capable of being that open and vulnerable, I'd prefer my moment of honesty wasn't based on whether I've gotten naked with a man.

I reach over, my hand touching the side of his face. I kiss him, softly, a question.

And he answers. My God, does he answer.

Chapter two

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