Page 106 of Rogue Mission
Something inside me is too. For her lost innocence.
You can’t unsee what she saw today.
A human never walks the earth the same way when you know people want you dead.
She never should have had to know this.
The lamplight catches the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers dig into her back like she’s holding herself together by force.
I want Westerly’s head on a spike.
I want her.
God, I want her so badly my bones ache with it.
But what kind of bastard thinks about sex when she just learned a professional killer is hunting her?
On top of the fact that I still have another man’s blood dried under my fingernails.
“You should rest,” I tell her, my voice scraped raw. “I’ll stay up, keep watch.”
She turns. Her eyes find mine, and something in her expression makes everything inside me throb.
“I’ll rest later.” She crosses to me, each step deliberate. “I want you.”
My hands come up, catching her shoulders before she can press against me. “Wait…”
“I don’t want to.” Her fingers curl into my vest. “We may not have long.”
I almost crumple into a heap of broken metal.
Her lips brush my jaw and my control fractures, jagged edges cutting into me.
“Hold on, I need to clean up first.” I step back, putting necessary distance between us. “I’ve got—my hands are still?—”
“Okay.” She doesn’t argue, just watches me with those luminous green eyes that see too damn much.
I escape downstairs, scrub Parson’s blood from my hands with my teeth clenched tight, until the water runs clear.
The soap Walton has smells medicinal, clinical. I work it under my nails, across my knuckles, washing away the evidence but not the memory.
That won’t ever fade.
God. Dammit. I rub both hands over my face.
Who am I? I don’t even feel like the same human. The last days have driven that man away.
All I know is I need to be upstairs five minutes ago.
The shower hisses, runs cold before it heats.
I stand under the spray anyway, letting it beat against my skull, my shoulders, washing the last few hours down the drain.
It’s a lie. Those hours are part of my soul now.
I tell myself it helps, anyway.
When I return to the guest room, towel wrapped around my hips, water still dripping from my hair, Rosalie is sitting on the edge of the bed.
