Page 49

I shrug. “I’m not. I’m just filling in the blanks. It’s fine. I have no expectations. At least we know where we stand.”

His expression softens. “Westandon opposite sides of the law, Samantha. Forgive me if I’m having a hard time dealing with that.”

I laugh lightly. “There’s nothing to deal with. Just let me walk out the door, and you’ll never have to see me again.”

The bowl he’s holding onto slips out of his hands and into the water. “Even if that was what I wanted, that’s not an option.”

I flip my hair behind my shoulders, trying to stay calm while my insides are churning. I’m supposed to be in control, but he’s making me feel things I never have before. “So, whatdoyou want?”

His jaw works as he fishes the bowl out of the water. Then his expression sets before he says, “What I always want. To see justice done.”

I speak without thinking, and with so much malice he recoils as though I’ve struck him. “Yeah, well. Good luck. I’ve waited a whole lifetime, and I’ve never seen justice.”

When he has no reply, I lace my tone with venom. “But go ahead and believe you can make a difference. You can’t.”

He dumps the dish back into the sink and stalks toward me. “Did it make a difference to you when I pulled you out of the water?”

I toss my head. “My life is over anyway. You just bought me some time.”

He frowns and glances at his phone, as if remembering what I said about his parents. “Do you feel better about yourself when you rip into other people? Is that why you do it?”

“What? No.”

With a head shake, he grabs hold of my hands and drags me toward him.

I tug against him, but his grip is too strong. “What are youdoing?”

Still holding my hands, he nods toward the exit. “From the front door, you can’t see into the kitchen.”

My eyes widen as he explains. “Silas Hightower is testing my integrity, but he’s the best chance we have right now.”

I swallow, my throat thickening as he caresses the top of my hand with his thumb. “We?”

His lip curls. “Yeah.We.We’re in this together now.”

“You don’t believe I’m a terrorist?”

A shadow crosses his face, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “I believe there’s more to you than you want people to see.”

For a second, I forget how to breathe. Not because he’s wrong, but because people only ever see what I let them. He shouldn’t be looking deeper—not him.

I force a smirk. If I don’t, I’ll flinch. And if I flinch, he wins. “Does that mean you’ll let me go?”

Rather than respond, he draws me closer. His chin whiskers tickle my earlobe as he leans in. “I don’t think I could let you go now even if I wanted to,” he whispers.

I don’t respond. I can’t. This is getting real, and I don’t do real.

Instead, I plaster on my demure smile, ease a butter knife off the countertop, and slide it up my sleeve.

Mick

Caleb was right. I need a chaperone. Not because I can’t keep my hands to myself, but because I’m out of my depth.

Samantha is damaged in a way I can’t even begin to understand. She wears that pain like armor—sharp edges and hard glances—and every now and then, something slips through, just enough to make me want to reach in and try to fix it.

But this goes beyond responsibility. Way beyond attraction.

I want to prove her wrong.