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“Close yourself off from me.”
She exhales softly. “Why not? I know what you see when you look at me. I made an assumption, and it was wrong. Can we stop talking about it?”
My jaw clenches. I shift closer, just close enough for the tension to spark between us again.
“You think you know what I see when I look at you?”
She doesn’t answer, her eyes fixed elsewhere, anywhere but me.
“I’m gonna make this crystal clear for you.” I pause, letting the weight of my words settle between us. “If it wasn’t my job toprotect you… If I wasn’t here to keep you safe, I’d take you to that bedroom and show you exactly how much I want you.”
Her breath catches, and the heat between us flares, undeniable and dangerous.
“But I won’t,” I add, my voice rough. “Because I need to protect you from everything—including myself.”
She turns to me, the tension between us electric. I’m caught in the space between desire and duty, and I hate it.
“Well, doesn’t that just suck.” She flops back onto the sofa, arms crossed, completely closed off, but the spark in her eyes betrays the walls she’s trying to create.
We settle back into an uneasy silence, the air crackling between us. The weight of our kiss hangs heavy in the room.
My body’s on edge, every nerve attuned to her. The fire we started isn’t just lingering—it’s spreading. The match has been struck, and the fire lit. It’s only a matter of time before things ignite into something neither of us can control—a blaze we’re too far gone to put out.
Every time I look at her, I see the hurt of rejection in her eyes yet feel the phantom press of her lips against mine. The memory burns hotter than any fire.
The sofa cushions still hold her warmth. Her scent—lavender and something uniquely her—lingers in the air, mixing with the silence that stretches between us like a living thing. The distance I forced between us for her protection now feels like its own kind of torture.
Professional distance.
The words ring hollow now. Nothing about this—about her—has ever been just professional.
NINETEEN
Blaze
The hurt flashingacross Ember’s face haunts me. Each minute of strained silence chips away at my resolve. She perches at the far end of the sofa, making herself small, and something in my chest cracks at the sight.
The fierce woman who faced down armed kidnappers without flinching now withdraws into herself because of my ‘noble’ intentions.
“What do you like to watch?” The question hangs in the air as she tucks herself into the corner like she’s trying to disappear.
“Whatever.” Her gaze remains fixed on her hands folded in her lap.
The space between us pulses with unspoken words and lingering heat. Every tiny movement draws my attention—the slight tremor in her jaw, how she worries her bottom lip, how she tries to make herself invisible. My body gravitates toward her despite my best efforts to maintain distance.
She shifts position, clearly trying to get comfortable without encroaching on my space. Her foot accidentally brushes my thigh as she stretches, and she yanks it back as if she’s been burned.
“Sorry,” she mumbles, the word barely audible, laced with embarrassment and lingering pain from my earlier rejection. Her cheeks flush pink as she tries to make herself even smaller.
Before she can withdraw, I catch her ankle.
“Don’t apologize.” My voice comes out low and rough.
I pull her foot into my lap, my thumbs working gentle circles into her arch. Her breath catches, her body freezing in surprise at the contact.
Every muscle in her body goes rigid, uncertainty flashing across her face. Her fingers clutch the sofa cushion, knuckles white with tension. The trust between us hangs by a thread, fragile and wavering.
My thumbs press deeper, finding the knots of tension in her arch. A small gasp escapes her lips, somewhere between pleasure and pain. Her toes curl reflexively as I hit a particularly sensitive spot.