Page 19 of Secret Mission

His eyes flash angrily as he studies me working through my emotions, taking my anger as directed at him.

The tone he uses cuts across the humid air, as effective as his knife would through flesh.

“Watch what you do. Could have ended with your throat cut.”

He’smad atme?Unbelievable.

“Yeah, well, maybe you should warn me you’re lying next to me. And maybe a heads up that you sleep with a knife under your pillow like some kind of unhinged action hero!”

His eyebrows shoot up, his disbelief almost comical, and I brace for whatever he’s about to hurl from his tongue in my direction.

“I don’t sleep with it under my pillow.”

That’s not what I expected.

Calling me stupid. Making me feel foolish. Yes.

Not this.

The unexpected comment puts me on my heels.

“Could’ve fooled me,” I snap, feeling all kinds of flustered. “I move wrong, and suddenly it’s allHoo-rah, danger alertover there. Hair-finger or whatever.”

The staring that follows makes my insides twist in shame.

But then his lips twitch. Only a fraction of a second, but he fights it down.

“You mean a hair-trigger?”

“Sure. That.” I frown, mostly at myself, but some at him because he’s giving me whiplash. “Whatever tactical nonsense you call it. My bad for being the helpless civilian whoaccidentallywoke up Rambo.”

That does it. His smirk breaks free, slow and crooked, and his low laugh rumbles out.

“Careful, Ally.” He shakes his head once. “Don’t try to distract me with humor.”

Time passes—the humid air pressing around us—as we continue to stare at each other breathing harder than we should.

There are a million things in his expression now, and not a single one is something I understand.

I’d probably need a spy satellite to unravel even a clue about this man. It only takes looking at him to know he’s a walking contradiction.

I mean, the knife in his hand. The corded sinew of a hardened killer. With the slow, sexy grin of a runway model who knows just how to work you over with a single well-placed blow.

God.

Pushing a hand into my hair, I let him see my frustration.

He’s the last person I want to be stuck with. I need someone I can trust.

I can’t trust someone I can’t understand.

“Where are we?” I croak through vocal cords that sound like rusty hinges.

He tips his head left and right, never taking his gaze from the fierce lock it has on me. His neck cracks loudly as those two judgmental lasers narrow even more on me.

I stare, mostly because he’s so handsome it hurts.

Deep. Somewhere I didn’t know could hurt.