Page 159 of On Edge

She smells of cinnamon and baking, and under that, wild lavender. Her kiss reminds me of rain and recklessness, and for a moment, the pub with its punters sneaking glances at this breath of fresh air, while nursing their warm pints of ale, fades away. The revenge, the evidence, the careful distance I’ve been trying my damnedest to keep…all of it burns away in the warmth of her lips against mine.

When she pulls back, I’m gripping her waist hard enough to bruise, my heart thudding in a way that has nothing to do with slicing veins or violence.

“I found it,” she breathes against my mouth, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I saw everything, the contracts, the payments. It’s all there. He kept it. He bloody kept it.”

“Slow down.” I keep my voice steady even as my blood starts to burn. “What have you found? Where?”

“His pet food factory.” She’s practically vibrating now. “I was working late at the bakery and my...his wife asked me to take him some dinner. I saw him open his private safe. Everything we’ve been looking for is inside.” Her eyes are fever-bright.“Proof of the payments to the arsonist. Forged documents about your family’s debts. All of it.”

“Why would he keep it?”

She shrugs. “Don’t all sick, sadistic bastards like to keep trophies?”

We do, and I make a note never to let her loose where I live or she’ll find mine.

“I’m going back.”

My hands tighten on her. “When?”

She looks away. “I don’t know yet, but soon.” She’s lying, but she’s already pulling away, mind already scheming, always three steps ahead of me. “Next time I’m next asked to take his dinner. The security guard knows me, so he won’t notice anything different. I just won’t leave straight away. I’ll hide somewhere until he’s gone. He’s always at his club until midnight. Then I’ll slip in through the loading docks, to the canal?—”

“No.” The word comes out harsher than I intend. “No, you’re not doing that.”

“I have to. If we wait?—”

“Then we both do it.”

“No.” She grips my coat, pulling me to her. “It has to be me. I work at his wife’s bakery. If I’m caught, I can talk my way out, say I forgot something…left a fork. But if you’re there? If you’re caught breaking into Richard’s factory?” She shakes her head. “He’ll put you away for life.”

Every instinct I have screams at me to lock her in the room upstairs, to refuse, to go myself and damn the consequences. But she’d claw my eyes out before she let me do that. She’s never taken my shit—and it’s why we’ve made it this far.

And I can’t keep her in a cage, no matter how much my dark side wants to.

“How are you getting out?” My voice is rough.

“The factory backs onto the canal.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going to bloody swim.”

“Did I tell you I’m a champion swimmer?” That wild grin again, the one that makes her look fearless and breakable all at once.

She has told me…several times.

“I’ll put everything in one of these waterproof bags, slip out the canal side, and be gone before anyone knows. Crazy Roy has a boat?—”

“You are not swimming. And Crazy Roy’s boat is a rust bucket that just about floats.” I take her face, force her to focus on me instead of her brilliant, suicidal plan. “Nell, the Thames current is vicious this time of year. If you cramp up?—”

“I won’t cramp up.”

“If you cramp up,” I continue, my thumb brushing her cheekbone, “You won’t be able to swim. Not in that damn water. Do you understand me?”

Something flickers in her eyes—the first hint of real fear I’ve seen since she burst through that door. Good. She should be afraid. Fear keeps you from feeling like you’re already dead.

“I’ll be fine,” she exhales.

“Fine isn’t fucking good enough.”

“Stop hen-pecking me.” She covers my hand with hers, and her fingers are ice-cold despite the pub’s warmth. “I’ll be fine. We need this. This is the evidence we’ve been looking for that clears your name. It proves you didn’t kill your family and can give you your life back.”