Page 79 of Kill for a Kiss

“Mm-hmm, I’ll try…”

I sip more of my tea, hiding a smile behind the rim of my cup as I watch Stan disappear toward the woods. He leaves the door ajar. The cool breeze comes in. It’s a welcome way to soothe the thumping of my heart now that I’m alone with Sterling. He sighs and sinks into the seat beside me, rubbing his temple as if Stan took five years off his life. I don’t laugh, but it’s close.

“You let him get to you,” I say.

“He gets to everyone,” he mutters, and I hear his reluctant fondness buried in his words.

From the corner of my eye, I study him. Sterling is all sharp lines and stillness, made of tension and control. Stan’s a hurricane in a fitted shirt. Watching them exist in the same room is like watching fire and water figure out how not to consume each other. Somehow, they make it work.

But now it’s just him and me in the quiet. And when he’s this close—close enough to reach, yet far enough not to—my heart doesn’t know what to do with itself. It slams against my ribs like it’s trying to break free to get to him.

It makes my ribs constrict in a way that makes it hard to breathe. But I’ve gotten better at settling for moments like this, by simplystaring at him, taking in his effortless beauty, his serene calmness, and his utter perfection.

Sterling’s quiet again, watching me finish my tea, eyes on my lips. His gaze doesn’t waver as I set the mug down.

Then, finally, his voice fills the room, fills my soul. “Does it taste as bad as Stan said?”

I tilt my head. “No,” I say with all the certainty I can muster. “I really love it.”

His posture shifts slightly, a breath of something easing in his chest.

“Especially since you made it for me,” I add.

Sterling clears his throat, looking away as if I said something scandalous. A faint blush creeps, barely there on his cheeks, but it stays. He stands abruptly and turns toward the lit fireplace. “I should add more wood.”

The fire’s doing fine, but I don’t say anything. I simply stay still, holding my tea and smiling into the faint steam.

A mercenary who blushes? Yeah… That’s definitely endearing.

21

Elle

Sterling finishes stoking the fire, the flames flaring higher, flooding the cabin with much more warmth. It wraps around everything, spreading everywhere. It seeps into the corners, into the walls, into me.

I shuffle lightly, suddenly too warm beneath the coat draped over my shoulders. It’s Sterling’s, so it’s rather oversized and heavy. Yet it’s been a constant comfort for me. Though, now it clings too tightly, trapping more than just heat. I slide it off slowly, the fabric slipping down my arms. I set it on the coffee table across, along with my half-full mug of tea that he made for me.

When I look up, Sterling’s already glancing over at me, while hanging the coat on the rack close to the door. He doesn’t look away when our eyes meet. He does this often… This quiet, unwavering stare that feels sointense.

The fire crackles in the silence. Then his eyes move to the watch on my wrist. “The watch,” he says. “Has it been helpful?”

I look down at it. The band’s too big, matte and dark, clearly meant for Stan’s wrist and style. “I…don’t know,” I say. “I don’t recall how long I’ve had it.”

Sterling leans against the couch, his arms folding across his chest. “A few days.”

I blink, knitting my brows a bit. “Oh?”

He nods, and immediately, my head swims at the thought. It feels like it’s been so much longer, as if time has been folding in on itself. But if Sterling says that’s all it’s been, then I believe him. If anyone’s keeping track, I know it’s him.

I run my thumb over the edge of the watch. “Time feels…off. For me, it stretches out and slips away at the same time.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but his posture slightly changes. There’s a brief flicker in his expression I’ve come to recognize as his subtle version of hesitation. “I know what you’re going through.” His voice drops. “Clo’s put a lot of people through it.”

He’s not looking at me anymore. His gaze is angled toward the fire, far away, as if he’s watching a memory unfold in the flames. “When did you start seeing people in this state?” The question leaves my lips before I can stop it.

“Much younger,” he says.

So we have that in common. Some of my earlier memories have crept back from the dead. I stomped them down before they could claw out of their graves. But the truth is undeniable. I’ve seen how Kys can affect people. I hear the sounds of pleading voices, bargaining for more. But I don’t know who they belong to. So I crush the thoughts down. I can’t keep getting dragged into a past I can’t fully recall. And all I keep remembering about my childhood are the awful parts.