Page 23 of Brass
“I—” Words fail me.
For a breathless moment, we simply stare at each other. His eyes catalog my guilty expression, my hand still gripping the doorknob, my body angled toward escape.
I never see him move.
One second, he’s across the hallway; the next, he’s a solid wall of muscle and controlled fury, pushing me back into the room. The door slams behind us with a finality that makes my heart race.
My back hits the wall beside the door. Not hard—he’s careful even in his anger—but firmly enough that I know I can’t escape.
His body cages mine, one arm braced beside my head, the other flat against the wall near my waist. He doesn’t touch me, yet I feel utterly trapped. Contained. His face hovers inches from mine, close enough that I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
“That,” he says, voice dangerously low, “was predictable and disappointing.”
Heat rushes to my face—shame, anger, and something else I refuse to acknowledge. “I was just?—”
“Don’t.” The single word cuts through my excuse. “Don’t insult both of us with a lie.”
I lift my chin, defiance overriding better judgment. “I needed things. Personal things.”
“You needed to prove you could disobey. To establish some illusion of control.” His eyes bore into mine, seeing too much. “Even at the risk of your safety.”
“You don’t own me.” The words come out breathier than intended. “You can’t keep me prisoner here.”
“Is that what this is to you?” He leans closer, frustration radiating from every taut line of his body. “You think I’m keeping you prisoner?”
“What would you call it?”
His jaw clenches. I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin, fascinated despite myself. The scar beneath his left eye seems more pronounced now, a jagged reminder of whatever violence shaped him.
“I’d call itprotection.” His voice drops to a whisper that somehow carries more weight than a shout. “I’d call itkeeping you alivewhen there are professional killers hunting you. I’d call it sacrificing my mission, my schedule, potentially my career, to make sure you don’t end up as another body the police find with ‘no apparent motive.’”
Each word hits with precision, finding weak spots in my defenses I didn’t know existed.
He’s too close. Too intense. Toopresent. I’ve interviewed dictators and murderers without flinching, but this man—this stranger who’s saved my life repeatedly in the past hours—makes me feel exposed in ways I never anticipated.
“I can take care of myself,” I insist, but my voice lacks conviction.
“Can you?” His eyes drop to the blood crusted at my temple, then to my arm wrapped protectively around my injured ribs. “Because evidence suggests otherwise.”
Anger flares, hot and immediate. I shove against his chest with both hands. He doesn’t budge. The solid wall of him absorbs my push as if it were nothing more than a gentle touch.
And that’s when I notice it—the unexpected heat coiling low in my belly. The way my pulse quickens, not from fear or anger, but from something far more primal.
I’m attracted to him.
The realization hits with embarrassing clarity. Attracted to his strength, his competence, the raw masculine power currently boxing me against this wall. Attracted to the intensity of his focus, the certainty of his movements, the unwavering purpose that drives him.
I hate it. Hate that my body betrays me this way. Hate that in the middle of danger, while professional killers hunt me, my limbic system chooses now to remind me I’m a woman and he is very much a man.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating slightly. Does he sense the shift? Can he read this reaction as easily as he reads everything else about me?
God, I hope not.
“Here’s how this works,” he says, voice dropping another octave. “You do exactly what I say, when I say it. No arguments. No creative interpretations. No independent excursions.”
“Or what?” I challenge, desperate to regain some foothold in this confrontation.
“Or I’ll be forced to consider you a liability rather than an asset.”
