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“What happened?” I ask Riley, breathless as I will my rage to get back into its cage. The memory-twisted nightmare coats the back of my tongue with bile.

“I’ll assume your thrashing and scream means it wasn’t a good dream then?” he asks, peering at me from the floor. Shirtless and sweaty.

“No, not a good dream. What are you doing?” I return the knife to the place between the wall and the bed.

“Trying to keep some semblance of fitness while being confined to a room.” He grunts, resuming the push-ups I must have interrupted. “There’s breakfast on the table.”

I get up and shove some ham and pea egg-slice into my mouth before going to the washroom to clean away the nightmare still fresh on my skin. The nighthouse may look dilapidated from the outside, but the running water and stone basins make it lush compared to everywhere else we have stayed. I suppose when they have to entertain high-paying clients with discretion, an inconspicuous outside and lush inside makes sense.

Fresh as a daisy, I exit the washroom to find Riley looking out the bedroom windows, still topless.

“Sorry if I took too long in there.”

Without a word, he turns around and walks straight past me.

“You’re angry at me again,” I accuse him.

He sighs, pausing in the doorway. “No. But worrying about you constantly is exhausting, Firecat.”

“Well, stop.”

“We can’t all just turn off our feelings like the Silent Assassin,” he bites back, immediately growling and looking at the ceiling. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I’m feeling like a caged animal, but I shouldn’t have lashed out.”

Riley turns and leans against the doorway, his brows creased and sweat glistening over his naked chest. Distracting me. Causing my rage to start raking its claws from my throat downward, splitting me open.

I turn my back to him. “Go away. Go away. Go away.”

“Go where?” Riley asks, annoyance in his voice.

Realizing I’ve spoken the words aloud, I groan. “Not you.” I grimace and scratch my eyebrow. “I was talking to my rage building up.”

Riley remains silent. I turn around to see if he heard me.

He heard me, because his face clearly says, “keep the crazy away from me.” I steel my shoulders and look him dead in the eye, waiting for the moment I will need to look away. But it doesn’t come because he shakes his head and backs into the washroom. My rage drops like a hot stone into my stomach, turning it to acid.

After changing into clean clothes, I set out my weapons and begin to sharpen them one by one—except for my hatchets which still don’t need sharpening. Riley eventually comes out of the washroom and joins me at the small table in the corner of the room.

“I didn’t…I didn’t realize that I…enraged you,” Riley says quietly, not taking his eyes off his hands in front of him at the table.

“I never said you did.” Riley opens his mouth with a look of protest as I continue. “My rage. Mine. It’s inside of me always, constantly trying to break free. Sometimes, it’s only fluttering. Other times, it’s clawing my insides.” I do not want to mention that I had likened it to a firecat long before he gave me the nickname.

His brows shoot up, and he finally looks at me. I hold his eye, wanting to show I’m not ashamed, despite knowing it’s quite the opposite. His eyes search mine. As if summoned, my rage begins to flap about, my heartbeat increasing. But the need to look away doesn’t come.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“So many reasons, Firecat. If I list every single one, do you think you would hate me a little less?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose between my eyes, willing away the tears beginning to sting. Worried I might be unsuccessful, I gather my now sharpened weapons. “For the record Riley,” I say, as I carry them to our bed. “I try to hate you. I really try.” I grunt, pulling my bag out from under the bed, putting my knives in it, and shoving it back under. “But I can’t,” I say, the last words a whisper, and then my breath hitches.

He’s standing right beside me. Looking at me like no one ever has before. I’ve had men and women leer, I’ve had them look at me appreciatively, or even possessively. But this is something else.

“Why do you look at me like that?” I ask as I try to maneuver around him. His hand juts out to capture me at the hip before I can pass.

“Like what?” his deep voice asks, caressing my skin in such a way that I have to resist the urge to shiver in response.

I put my hands on his chest, applying pressure to push him away, as I try to sidestep him again. “Like you want to kiss me.”