Page 114 of Rogue

“You’ve got a funny way of thanking me, fireball.”

“You budge one inch and I’ll break a finger,” I hiss.

I feel his back rumble beneath me. “Better a finger than a knife in the throat. Of all the weapons . . .”

There’s pride in his tone. And more.

I swallow hard.

It takes less than an hour for Jaxson and me to fall back into the normal swing of things. I’ve got a sore throat, chafed ankle, cuts and bruises everywhere, and have still managed to pin Jaxson facedown on the Aubusson carpet the second after we’d entered his swanky, five-star hotel room.

I’m tired, beat up, filthy, a physical and emotional train wreck.

I should be happy Jaxson’s reverted back to the person I fell in love with. My playful, do-as-I-may lover. A man who declared that there was thisthingbetween us and who pursued me to no end. How can he act like nothing’s changed after everything that’s happened?

After what Novák did to him.

I won’t rest until I see it.

“Either you take off your shirt or I’ll cut it straight off your body.”

“You’ll have to let go of your death grip on my fingers first. Besides, I like it rough, remember?”

Remember? I’ve got the battle wounds to prove it. Damn it. If there was only a way to flip him onto his back without him wiggling free. Then he’ll see my panic and how dead serious I am about this.

“Please, Jaxson. Let me look at it.”

Back within the crumbling walls of the cell, there’d been no time to process it all. The aftermath of the horribly executed hydrogen-peroxide explosion is a blur. Jaxson and the Irishman digging me out from beneath the mattress. Jaxson tugging on my skinny jeans while I stared at Novák’s lifeless body. The dead Pricks lining the walkway, each with a single bullet to the forehead. Our mad dash to exit the catacombs before anyone investigated the cause of the miniearthquake deep beneath the fine boulevards of Paris.

A fitting end to those Pricks. Now their bones will join the thousands of others buried within these tunnels. I’ll be sure to toss a few flower petals down the nearest manhole whenever I pass by.Yeah, right.

We’d bidau revoirto the mysterious Irishman—who, interestingly enough, Jaxson seemed to be acquainted with. Then like two lost sewer rats, I followed Jaxson in a brow-raising march across the pristine marble foyer of what has to be the swankiest five-star hotel on the Champs-Élysées and to Jaxson’s suite of rooms.No,messieurs. That catacomb tour sure wasn’t what I expected it to be.

As soon as we closed the door, I tackled him to the floor.

“Jaxson,” I whisper, pleadingly.

He stills beneath me.

“Turn your head and look at me. You’ve got to understand what this does to me.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Damn you, it matters. It’s the price you paid on my behalf for being late.”

He sighs, then softly says, “What the hell. Go ahead, take a gander. But I want something in exchange.”

“Fine. What is it?” I’ve already released his hands and have hooked my fingers around the hem of his shirt.

“A shower.”

I blink. “A shower?”

“Yep. You heard me.”

Okay. Not exactly what I was expecting he’d say. Not “Let’s rehash what’s happened” or “Let me report in to Hayden, then finish the hit on you.” The hit—yeah, talk about a white elephant in the room.

“Deal.” And while you’re showering, I’ll exit stage left.