Page 22 of Blood of the Loyal
The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in my belly. This is dangerous territory, but I nod anyway.
"Ten minutes."
He escorts me upstairs, his presence filling my small apartment. I grab clothes while he examines my security setup, moving through my space like he owns it.
"Window access is shit," he says, testing the locks. "Anyone could get in here."
"Good thing I'm leaving then."
When I emerge from the bedroom with my bag, he's standing by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. The sight of him in my space does things to me I can't afford to feel.
"Ready," I say.
The drive takes forty minutes, winding through increasingly isolated roads. Trees close in as civilization disappears. When we finally stop, a cabin sits nestled among pines, lights glowing against the darkness.
"Cozy," I observe, noting the strategic positioning, the hidden cameras.
"Functional." He kills the engine, eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror. "Two bedrooms. Full kitchen. Complete privacy."
Inside, the cabin feels smaller than it looked from outside. Intimate. The fireplace crackles, casting dancing shadows across exposed beams and comfortable furniture.
"Bedroom's down the hall," Eamon says, setting my bag down. "I'll take the couch."
"You're staying?"
"Someone needs to keep you safe." He moves closer, backing me against the kitchen counter. "Question is, who's going to keep you safe from me?"
My breath catches as he braces his hands on either side of me, caging me in. This close, I can see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, the scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
"Are you threatening me?" I whisper.
"No, sweetheart." His voice turns rough. "I'm warning you."
"About what?"
"About this." His thumb traces my jawline, and I shiver. "About how much I want you despite every instinct telling me you're dangerous."
"I'm not?—"
"Yes, you are." His other hand settles on my waist, thumb stroking the strip of skin where my shirt rides up. "You're the most dangerous thing I've ever wanted."
Heat radiates from his touch, making it hard to think. This is exactly what I can't let happen, but my body doesn't care about mission parameters.
"Eamon—"
"You handled yourself like a professional at that warehouse," he continues, lips close enough to my ear that his breath makes me tremble. "Makes me wonder what other skills you're hiding."
The question hangs between us, loaded with suspicion and desire in equal measure. His hand slides higher on my waist, and I fight the urge to arch into his touch.
"Everyone has hidden skills," I manage.
"Do they?" His thumb brushes the underside of my breast, and I gasp. "Or are you something more than a bartender playing dress-up?"
The accusation should terrify me. Instead, it sends liquid fire through my veins. He suspects me, wants me, and can't decide which impulse to follow.
"What do you think I am?" I challenge.
His eyes darken. "I think you're going to be the death of me."
