Page 8 of Owen (Blue Team #1)

The frigid air did nothing to cool my temper.

And the fact I didn’t understand why I was pissed only pissed me off more.

I knew I was seriously over Natasha’s hot and cold personality changes.

Her reminding me she wasn’t Natasha only to flinch when I called her Sarah.

We both knew there was something brewing under the surface—an attraction that I’d thought we’d mutually—albeit silently—agreed we wouldn’t act on.

But goddamn if the woman hadn’t looked at me like she was waiting for me to kiss her.

In the moonlight no less, like a fucking romance movie.

More like a horror thriller where the hero bites the dust after the female lead dies doing something incredibly stupid like running back to the crime boss uncle.

Months. I lived with her for months. And in that time, she’d changed a lot.

It wasn’t lost on me she came from money.

In the beginning, it was small insignificant things like her perfectly manicured fingernails and expensive haircut and highlights.

Being as I’d been married to a bitch who visited the salon once a week to get her nails done, and once a month for a root-touchup—God forbid a millimeter of brown show—I knew an expensive cut when I saw one.

But it was also the things Nat didn’t know how to do, little things like how to clean a house.

Not that I’d asked her to clean, but when she’d set out on her own to conquer the bathroom she used, I’d caught her reading the back of a Soft Scrub bottle.

Yet she knew the perfect wine pairing for scallops.

Watching her vacuum was akin to watching a toddler push around a walker—she had no idea what she was doing, yet she delicately held a Walmart wine glass like it was fine crystal.

However, now she was comfortable cooking and cleaning—small changes in her that were actually big changes.

We’d never spoken about them, but I knew by the way she smiled when she took cookies from the oven she was proud of herself.

She’d taken to watching cooking shows and had even started giving me detailed grocery lists so she could try new recipes.

Being as I wasn’t fond of cooking and before she’d taken on the role as head chef our meals had been mostly takeout, I didn’t complain when a meal was burnt—and in the beginning, there were a lot of burnt meals.

I’d simply expressed my gratitude and encouragement.

As much as things had changed, much remained the same.

Always closed off and distant, unless she had a nightmare.

Then she sought comfort. It was in those moments she let her guard down—not verbally, but emotionally.

She’d allow me to hold her while she shook in fear.

She’d bury her face in my chest and let me rub her back.

But the next morning she’d be locked up tight and the cycle would begin again.

Round and round we went.

Dancing around attraction and what was right.

So her gazing up at me like she wanted me to break the silent rule didn’t piss me off, it infuriated me.

With more force than was necessary, I opened the back hatch of the Suburban and yanked out the bags.

I could do this .

Now that Pollaski had made his play, it wouldn’t be very much longer.

We’d been in a holding pattern waiting to see what Pollaski was going to do.

There was no need to stir up a hornets’ nest if the man was going to leave Natasha be.

That had not been the case; Wilco Pollaski had declared war.

It was a fatal error on his part. Zane Lewis was not a man you threatened.

But more, he was not a man who took threats against his family kindly.

Anyone who was anyone knew who Zane Lewis was, therefore, Pollaski knew and he still threatened Zane’s wife Ivy.

If that wasn’t bad enough he’d threatened Max Brown’s wife Eva and their kids.

It was debatable which of those two men would come undone first. What wasn’t in question was Zane had already put together a team and was making plans.

Pollaski’s days were now numbered.

It wouldn’t be long before Natasha would be free of her uncle.

Yet I didn’t know, because she never fucking spoke where she’d go after everything was said and done.

Eva and the other women had taken a liking to her, so I’d bet they’d try to talk her into staying in Maryland, though I didn’t know what she’d do for work.

I’d investigated her, she didn’t have a college degree but I also knew that didn’t mean shit, she could still find work if she wanted.

Thinking on it, the Pollaskis were filthy rich with an emphasis on filthy—dirty money made from prostitution, drugs, and blackmail.

But I reckoned some of it would go to Natasha once her uncle was dead.

Why did that piss me the fuck off?

Once again my dilemma slapped me in my face. Natasha wasn’t Natasha, she was Sarah Pollaski. Heiress to the Pollaski money. The crime family princess, with her crown of thorns.

I did not want that shit in my life .

There it was—the reminder I needed to ignore my attraction.

I took my time taking our bags up to the master bedroom.

I took more time unwrapping the sheets from the plastic that had been left on the foot of the bed by whatever service Rhode used to look after his house while he was away.

I’d taken time, a lot of it to tamp down my irritation but it wasn’t enough.

It flared back to life when I walked into the house and found her in the kitchen.

She was speaking softly to Kevin, after months of her not talking to anyone on my team, saving all of her limited words for me I didn’t like hearing it.

Even if all she was doing was explaining she was heating up soup because there was nothing else in the house to make.

So, yeah, I was taking my sweet-ass time.

I was also trying to build back the wall I needed to keep between us.

How I was going to do that while sharing a bed with Nat I didn’t know.

But there was no way in hell one of the other guys was going to sleep next to her.

And none of us was going to share a queen-sized bed in order to give Nat her own room.

Which meant for the foreseeable future we wouldn’t only be sharing a house but a bed, too.

I made the bed, doing it methodically with military precision, crisp corners like a DI would be inspecting it and I didn’t want to get smoked, so the bed was perfect.

All of that took a long time, but not long enough.

I had to get my shit together for Nat so I could do my job, and when it was done she could move on and live her life.

Without me.

I’d need nor want that hassle. Once was enough.

I’d tried, I’d failed, I’d learned. Actually, I’d failed in spectacular fashion.

My ex had made known far and wide what a shit husband I’d been.

She’d been relentless in this endeavor, so convincing she had me believing it.

And I knew the end of our shitty marriage wasn’t because I’d done her wrong.

But through the divorce I learned—no, I vowed —never to do it again.

There would be no future second ex-wife for me, no woman who could control my happiness, and no more drama.

Not even a hint of it, and Nat had ‘drama’ tattooed on her forehead.

I made my way downstairs, noting that Myles had a fire going so the temperature in the house was nearly warm enough to take your coat off and not freeze but not quite there yet.

There was no TV in the great room, but someone had found a stereo, and rock music piped through the cabin at a low volume.

Gabe was stretched out on the tiny loveseat that would comfortably fit two small people, but Gabe’s large frame took up the majority of the space.

Two other empty recliners sat on either side of the loveseat, facing the fire.

They were empty because Myles and Kevin were sitting at the kitchen table with Nat, bowls placed in front of them.

Not a single person lifted their gaze as I walked into the kitchen.

That irritated me, too.

And the sudden urge to shake Nat awake washed over me in an unwelcome wave. What the hell did I care if she didn’t acknowledge my presence? I meant nothing to her. I was her unpaid bodyguard. Nothing more.

The pan she’d used to cook was washed and set on the strainer next to a cleaned bowl—obviously, Gabe had eaten, as well. The counters were tidied. A towel hung over the handle of the stove the same way Nat did at my house and for some ungodly reason that irked me, too.

“Your bowl’s in the microwave.” Nat’s voice drifted from across the room. “I didn’t know how long you’d be.”

“Thanks,” I returned, and went to the microwave.

“I can make more if that’s not enough. ”

Christ, that pissed me off.

“This is fine,” I lied.

After rushing around all day, only snacking on a few protein bars, I was hungry but I didn’t want Nat to feed me. As a matter of fact, I didn’t want Nat to make dinner or lunch or breakfast for any of us like this was some sort of domestic situation.

“Owen?” Her voice was closer now.

I craned my neck and looked over my shoulder to find her right next to me.

Unfortunately, I was distracted by her nearness, so goddamned distracted by the void of nothingness behind her eyes when she looked at me, I missed her raising her hand. Further, I missed it moving toward me, then lowering and landing on my forearm.

This was not going to work. I should’ve told Zane to send one of the other guys in my place.

I should’ve stayed back in Maryland and done the jobs I was good at—hunting and extinguishing threats.

I was not cut out for close cover. There were other ways I could keep Nat safe and do it keeping me safe .

“Yeah?” I forced out.

“There’s not much in the house…to eat I mean. But I saw a can of ravioli. I know it’s your favorite so I pushed it behind the clam chowder.”

I fought against my body going stiff. I failed in this attempt, and Nat felt it.

Her left eye twitched, something I’d learned over the months was her tell.

A small tic that told me she was uneasy.

This was normally the juncture where I’d try to smooth that discomfort, but right then with her touching me, telling me she’d done something thoughtful, even if it was small coming from her, it was huge.

All of it. Her taking the chance to lean close, speak softly, reach out on her own to hold on to my arm, something she had never done .

No, I didn’t have it in me. Not when there was a riot of thoughts running through my head.

“I know you have to be hungry, and not that I want the others to go without, I just thought…” Nat trailed off, leaving me hanging.

I didn’t know what she thought.

I had no fucking clue what was going on in her head.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

Especially when my gut was clenching.

How the hell did she remember something so stupid like I only like canned ravioli?

I barely remembered telling her about the guys making fun of me because I refused to eat MREs.

If we were only in the field a few days I always packed ravioli and I’d eat them breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

I’d take the hit of a few extra pounds in my pack if it meant my stomach wasn’t cramping with shit Meals Ready to Eat that should’ve been call Gut Busters in a Bag.

“Thanks.” I barely got the grunted word past my lips when she removed her hand.

And you guessed it, that pissed me way the fuck off.

I didn’t want her touching me, but I did.

More than anything I wanted her hands and mouth on me.

I wanted to live in a perfect universe where I’d never met my ex-wife and Nat was not the daughter of a slain gangster, niece of the current king of the Chicago crime world.

Just for a few hours, I wanted to live in a fantasy.

Dangerous thoughts for a man like me.

I had to be ready. I had to be steady. I had to have my shit wired tight.

I ruthlessly shoved those thoughts aside and grabbed the bowl of soup.

I didn’t bother taking it to the table like civility called for. I stood at the sink, lifted the bowl to my mouth, and swallowed the lukewarm broth in a few gulps. I ignored Nat and the rest of the guys as I searched for the can of ravioli she’d hidden.

I needed time to myself, something I wouldn’t get. Not with Nat sleeping next to me. I dumped the contents of the can into my dirty soup bowl. Alarm bells rang and a feeling I knew well stole over me—bad shit was coming my way.

I could feel it deep in my bones.