Page 27 of When He Fights (Protector & Defender #3)

Kane slowly lowered the phone. He put it on the nightstand, right between the two champagne flutes. “You’re not going to the morgue. Over my fucking dead body.”

She shot back up to her knees. Her hands flew out and fisted in his shirt. “Exactly!”

His eyes were chips of burning intensity. Heated enough to nearly singe her with just a glance. “What?”

“The bullets were flying. I was screaming. Your blood was on me! ” Okay.

Way too loud. Clearly, her control was gone.

Completely frayed. The news that Logan had killed the driver of the truck…

It could have been Kane. Kane could be dead with bullet wounds in his body.

“You got lucky. The bullets missed you. You could have been dead. You could have been on top of me, protecting me while you were bleeding out, and then you would have been gone .”

His hazel eyes glittered. “My job is to protect you!”

“Forget the job! You aren’t supposed to die!

You aren’t supposed to be a target!” Her fingers fisted, and she jerked the material of his shirt.

She’d intended to jerk him toward her. Maybe get him to tumble onto the bed with her and then Ana had thought she’d kiss him because kissing Kane suddenly seemed incredibly necessary.

Kissing him.

Holding him.

Making sure that Kane wasn’t going to die. Doing whatever was necessary to make sure that Kane would not die.

But Kane was an immovable object. Her yanking on his shirtfront had zero impact. He didn’t budge so much as an inch.

His eyes kept right on glittering as he glowered at her. She crouched in the bed, with rose petals around her, and Kane wasn’t even touching her. She was touching him.

“My job is to protect you,” he said again, lower. Raspier.

“Your job isn’t to die for me.” They needed to be clear on that point. “I don’t want bullets flying and you getting hit because you’re near me.” No, it was more than that. So much more. “You’re a target because you’re protecting me.” She snatched her hands back. “You’re fired.”

He blinked.

“You’re fired, Kane!” Ana pointed to the door.

Was she being way too dramatic? Hell, yes.

But was she still firing him? Hell, yes.

Because a man was dead. And Kane needed someone to protect him.

She’d be that someone. “Go out, get on that Harley you rode in on, and drive the hell back to wherever you came from.”

He did not move. Hardly shocking.

“You’re fired,” she said again. Had he missed that part? How many times did she need to say the words?

His eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened. And he shook his head. No.

“Yes,” Ana whispered.

His hand rose. His fingers curled under her jaw. Cupped her carefully. “Sweetheart, you can’t fire me.”

Right. Because she wasn’t the one paying the bills. “I’ll call Grayson back. He can tell you that you’re fired. I’ll get another guard.” Another guard would work better. Logan wouldn’t want to kill the other guard. He wanted to kill Kane because of a personal vendetta.

Kane had put a gun to Logan’s head. He’d wanted to pull the trigger.

She’d stopped him.

“I’m not leaving you, Ana. You can’t fire me. Not now. Not ever.” Kane leaned toward her. The faintest rumble of what could have been fury vibrated in his words. “Nice fucking try, though.” And then…

Then his mouth crashed down on hers.

Dead bodies were such a pain in the ass.

Gray had been so close to getting to his hotel room. Crashing. And then the stolen truck had been found.

The truck and the body, and now he was peering inside the open driver’s door of the vehicle and glaring at the dead man.

Dead men couldn’t talk. They couldn’t lead him to the killer he was after.

“That’s a lot of blood,” a husky, feminine voice pointed out.

Of course, she’d followed him to the scene. Emerson and her sexy dress. Though she’d ditched the broken heels and now wore the sneakers she’d bought from a nurse at the hospital.

Her voice seemed a bit off, though.

He glanced back at her. The light from a nearby streetlamp fell on Emerson’s face. Maybe it was his imagination, but she seemed to look a bit green. Now, wasn’t that interesting? Gray backed away from the vehicle, making damn sure not to touch anything. His head cocked as he studied her.

Her gaze darted to the blood-stained windows of the truck. She swallowed quickly. Repeatedly. Then her gaze averted. Fast.

Definitely interesting.

He closed in on her. “There tends to be a lot of blood when someone is shot five times.” He’d counted each entry wound. “At close range.” Gray stopped right in front of her. “Can’t handle the blood, can you?”

She hissed out a breath. “I can handle it just fine.”

Nope, she could not, in fact, handle it. “That why you’re swaying on your feet? Because you handle things just fine?”

She sent him an icy smile. Her body also swayed again.

He caught her elbow. To help steady the sway and to guide her away from his crime scene.

“If you can’t handle blood and gore,” he said, keeping his voice low and ignoring the incredible softness of her skin beneath his touch, “then why in the hell are you playing around with maniacs like Logan Catalano?”

“Maniac?” she repeated. “That a clinical term?”

“He just shot a man five times. You want me to call him an upstanding member of society? Because I don’t think that description fits the situation.”

“We don’t know that Logan fired those shots.”

He rolled his eyes. “I am too tired to deal with your delusions.” He deliberately stepped to the side.

“You’ve been interviewing the killer for months.

Maybe you had fun playing games with him, but this is reality.

And, in reality, Logan Catalano is a twisted freak of a killer.

He came after me. He came after my friends.

He also just left a dead body for us to find, so, yes, there’s that.

” He moved closer to her. When he’d been peering into the truck’s interior, the scent of blood, death, and excrement had flooded his nostrils because when the poor bastard driving had died, his bowels had emptied.

Death wasn’t pretty. Death wasn’t kind. It was brutal and sick, and twisted pricks out there like Logan Catalano were maniacs. They were brutal beasts. He wasn’t going to sugar coat for the pretty psychiatrist.

But as he stepped closer to her, Emerson’s scent washed away all others. A sweet scent. Light. Fresh. Innocent. That stupid thought again. What. The. Fuck?

“I don’t have delusions,” she told him.

He thought he’d heard a hitch in her voice.

Now his attention was utterly fixated on her. “Logan Catalano was a mob enforcer. A hitman. The real fucking deal.” He shook his head. “You had to see photos of the crimes linked to him. What is this, your first time to see a kill up close and personally?”

“Yes.” She swallowed hard. “It is my first time. To be, uh, up close and personal.” Then her hand flew over her mouth. “And if you will excuse me…” Words muffled by her fingers even as her horrified gaze held his. “I’m about to be very, very sick.”

And, dammit, she was. Emerson went careening away from the truck. He knew she was going to vomit.

Hell.

He rushed after her, and as she doubled over, he swept back her hair just in time.

Then she vomited right near his shoes.

Dammit. On his shoes.

He hated working with partners.