Page 15 of My End (Iron Fiends #10)

Stretch

I paced the damn length of the room for the tenth time in an hour.

The worn rug beneath my bare feet was doing little to quiet the thud of my steps, and the overhead light was too damn bright, but I hadn’t turned it off because the last thing I needed was to be in the dark with my thoughts.

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered.

Tilly.

Tilly was the problem.

She was crawling under my skin like a damn splinter I couldn’t dig out.

The moment I told her to be careful, I knew I’d fucked up.

Not because it wasn’t true—hell, it was more than true—but because I’d possibly opened her eyes to what was going on.

I should have just kept my mouth shut. What if she ran to Boone to tell him I had told her to be careful?

I was done. One wrong word from her and I’d be strung up by my ankles in the wine cellar, or whatever underground crypt Boone kept for people who crossed him.

I dragged my hand down my face and let out a breath that did nothing to calm me.

It wasn’t just that she was soft when this place was hard. Or that she smiled like she didn’t know what a real threat looked like. It was the way she looked at me, like she saw something worth noticing in a man like me. Like I wasn’t already drowning in lies and blood.

She was a fucking spotlight in a world I was trying to disappear into.

And it was going to get me killed.

I stopped pacing and leaned my forearm against the cool plaster wall. I let my head rest against it, and my eyes squeezed shut.

My phone sat on the nightstand, silent. No texts. No calls. That was a good thing.

And then, a knock.

Sharp. Three taps.

I spun, confused. Jim had told me I was done for the night. I hadn’t expected to see anyone until breakfast.

Cautious, I crossed the room and pulled the door open just enough to peek out.

Tilly.

Her hair was piled high on her head in a messy twist that looked like she’d forgotten about it halfway through styling.

She wore a white T-shirt, soft and oversized, with sleeves cuffed up, and black shorts dotted with specks of dried paint in every color imaginable.

Her feet were bare on the cool tile, and her eyes were wide.

“You shouldn’t be here,” I rasped.

Her head tilted. “I wanted to talk to you.”

If anyone saw her here, if anyone even whispered that Tilly had been at my door, I was fucked six ways from Sunday.

I grabbed her wrist and yanked her inside as I closed the door behind her with a quiet click.

“There are cameras in the hallway,” I said in a low voice. “If anyone rewinds that tape…”

“They won’t,” she said simply. “Not unless someone gives them a reason.”

She was calm. Completely unbothered.

I wasn’t.

She stood in the middle of my room like she belonged there. Like this wasn’t the single worst idea I’d had in the last five years.

I looked her up and down. Paint-speckled legs, bare feet, her eyes trailing around the room taking it all in.

“Why are you so upset I’m here?” she asked, finally looking at me.

I swallowed. Hard. “Because you shouldn’t be coming to my room in the middle of the night wearing that.”

She looked down at her clothes, then back at me with a smirk. “They’re just my painting clothes.”

“Right,” I said tightly. “That’s the problem.”

She walked slowly around the room and let her fingers trail across the top of the dresser. She wasn’t snooping, just… observing.

“Though honestly,” she continued, “most of my clothes are painting clothes.”

I stood still. Watching. Waiting. Wishing like hell she would turn and walk right back out that door before I ruined everything.

Instead, she turned to me. Her eyes dropped to my chest. I followed her gaze.

Jeans. Button undone. A thin white undershirt, damp around the collar, the fabric clinging to the ink across my ribs. The hem of the shirt was half-tucked, just enough to give her a peek of that open waistband.

Her gaze flicked up to meet mine.

Shit.

I should’ve stepped back.

I didn’t.

“Boone isn’t going to like that you’re in here,” I said, more for my sanity than hers.

She rolled her eyes. “As if Boone has any say over what I do.”

I narrowed my gaze. “If I were Boone, I wouldn’t like you being in here.”

She tilted her head. “You assume he’s possessive, but would you really be that possessive of a stepsister?”

I froze. “Stepsister?” I echoed.

She blinked. “Yeah. Boone’s dad married my mom when I was a kid. You didn’t know that?”

“You live with him,” I said, voice flat. “He’s your stepbrother, and you live here?”

She laughed, light and easy. “Not because I want to. Six months ago, he came to me saying he wanted to make a show of family unity with the election coming up. Said the press might harass me. So he asked me to move in.” She shrugged.

“I had my own place. But can you blame me? There’s a chef here.

A studio. Drivers. More space than I could ever use.

Boone thinks he’s protecting me, but really I’m just here for the perks. ”

She gave me a grin like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The knot in my chest came undone.

“Did you think Boone and I were…” She trailed off, and her face went pale. “Oh my god. No. No!” She laughed again, a little more breathlessly this time. “I’m actually a little insulted. Boone isn’t even close to my type.”

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding.

The only thing— the only goddamn thing —keeping me from touching her had just been ripped out from under me.

My restraint? Gone.

She crossed toward me, those long paint-streaked legs drawing my eyes like a magnet.

“You thought Boone and I were a thing,” she teased, and stepped even closer. “That’s why you kept looking at me like you wanted to say something but didn’t.”

She was just two steps away now. Her gaze was on my mouth.

“Guess that excuse is gone,” I murmured.

She blinked. “Excuse?”

“To stay away from you.”

Her breath hitched.

The silence stretched.

And then she tripped.

Her foot caught the edge of the rug as she stepped forward, and I moved before I thought. I caught her around the waist, and her hands landed on my chest.

My fingers gripped her waist firmly.

I looked down.

She looked up.

And the space between us disappeared.

“Fuck it,” I growled, and I kissed her.

Hard. Fast. No hesitation.

Her lips were soft and surprised, and then suddenly demanding. She met me with a fire I hadn’t expected as her fingers curled in my shirt while I deepened the kiss.

I backed her toward the wall, one hand cupping the back of her head and the other on her hip, as I pulled her against me like I could mold her to my body.

This was wrong.

Every cell in my body screamed it.

But it felt so fucking good.