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Why did he care?

She didn’t just ask him that.

Was she really that naive? Or was she just refusing to see it?

Christ. He was so fucked.

He could’ve answered a thousand different ways.

That she’d crashed into his life years ago and never really left.

That she was the only woman who could drive him insane and still make him want to drag her closer.

That no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop watching her, wanting her, worrying about her.

Instead, he braced his hand against the wall beside her head, crowding her, forcing her to see what she refused to acknowledge. He watched her breath catch and her eyes widen. Her lips parted slightly, and he fought the urge to close the distance, to claim her mouth with his.

“You haunt me, Ro.” His voice came out rougher than he intended. Raw. “Every time I close my eyes, you’re there. Every time I let my guard down, you slip through the cracks. And I fucking let you.”

He hadn’t wanted to. Had tried not to.

But he’d been sitting beside her bed, watching her fight something he couldn’t see, couldn’t stop. He’d listened to her whimper for help in her sleep, and it had wrecked him.

“For two days, I’ve been watching you fight an enemy I couldn’t help you with. And now you want to go back out there alone? I can’t just stand by and watch you throw yourself back into danger.”

She swallowed hard, her gaze flicking to his lips before meeting his eyes again.

There. Right there. That hesitation told him she felt it, too—the tension crackling between them like a live wire.

“Davey,” she whispered. “You don’t understand. I’m not running from danger. I am the danger.”

His stomach twisted. Not with fear, this time, but with rage. She wanted him to believe that? That she was some untouchable force, like she wasn’t standing right here in fornt of him, barely stitched together, barely fucking breathing?

He shook his head. “Bullshit. You’re running scared, Ro. I’ve seen you in action. You don’t scare easy.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “You think you know me? You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

“Then enlighten me,” he challenged, his face inches from hers.

She shoved against his chest, but he didn’t budge.

“Who is after you?”

She remained stubbornly silent.

“Who did you piss off?”

Still, nothing.

“I can’t help you if you don’t tell me.”

He felt the sharp press of steel against the front of his sweatpants and looked down.

A fucking paring knife.

He sighed. He’d faced down insurgents, IEDs, and the kind of hellfire most people wouldn’t walk away from. He wasn’t about to lose sleep over a five-foot-four spitfire and a damn kitchen knife.

“Where the hell did you find that?”

Her gaze flicked to the magnetic knife rack on the wall right next to them. Sure enough, the paring knife was missing. He hadn’t even seen her take it.

“Back off, or I’ll cut off your favorite appendage.”

“You won’t,” he said and smiled. “You like that part of me too much.”

She hissed like a pissed-off hell cat, but the pressure of the blade eased. “I hate you.”

“So you’ve said. Many times.”

“I don’t need your help. I can handle this on my own.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “Right, because you’ve done such a bang-up job of it so far.” He leaned in closer, his nose nearly brushing hers. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re bleeding all over my shirt.”

She looked down at the spreading stain on the borrowed shirt and swore.

“Yeah. So cut the tough girl act and just tell me what the hell is going on.”

She shoved at his chest again, but he still didn’t budge. “You shouldn’t care about me or my safety. We fuck, Wilde. We use each other to scratch that itch. That’s it. No emotions. We don’t even like each other!”

No emotions?

He would’ve laughed if it didn’t feel like she’d just taken that damn knife and twisted it straight into his gut.

No emotions.

Like they were nothing.

Like she didn’t know damn well what this was.

Like she hadn’t just looked at him like he was the only thing keeping her standing.

His grip on her flexed. His breathing slowed, rough, uneven.

The smart thing would be to let go of her. To back away and let her go on pretending all they had between them was sex.

But, fuck, he didn’t want to be smart. He wanted to fight her on this. Wanted to make her say it first. Wanted to shove her against the wall and kiss every goddamn lie out of her mouth.

He was tired of pretending.

And before he could stop himself, those dangerous words clawed up his throat, words he couldn’t take back once said.

“You’re right. I don’t like you.” His voice dropped, rough, unsteady, scraping his throat raw, betraying him. “I fucking love you.”

Her eyes flared wide. Yeah, he’d caught her off guard with that one. Hell, he’d caught himself off guard. He hadn’t meant to say it. Not like that. But now that the truth was out, he couldn’t take it back.

Didn’t want to.

He’d spent most of the last year trying to bury this.

Telling himself it wasn’t real.

That it was habit, frustration, just good sex.

But he’d been lying to himself.

Because after two days of watching her bleed, watching her break, watching her fight something too big for her to handle alone?—

He couldn’t keep up the lie any longer.

Rowan’s face paled, and for a moment, she looked more terrified than he’d ever seen her. The knife trembled slightly in her grip.

“What?” She laughed, but the sound was too high and brittle. “Uh, no. You’re wrong. You’re confused. You’re?—”

He cupped her face in one hand and brushed his thumb over her lips, silencing her. “You don’t get to decide how I feel, Hellcat.”

For a moment, they stood frozen in a silent battle of wills.

Rowan’s eyes blazed with a mix of anger and something else—fear, maybe, or longing. She jerked her head away from his touch. “You can’t love me,” she said, her voice cracking. “You don’t know me.”

Jesus, this woman. She was infuriating and stubborn and impossible. She was probably going to be the death of him. And, still, he wanted her more than his next breath.

“I know you’re stubborn as hell and too damn proud for your own good. I know you’re fiercely loyal to those you care about. And I think you care about me more than you want to admit, which is why you’ve been keeping me at arm’s length.” Slowly, he moved his other hand down to grasp her wrist. “Put the knife down, Ro. Let me in.”

She pressed her lips together in a tight line, refusing to give an inch. But he could see the weariness under the shadows in her eyes, the tension coiled in her muscles. She was running on fumes and stubbornness.

“Why won’t you let me help you?”

“Because I don’t want you hurt,” she said almost inaudibly.

He smirked at that. “You’re holding a knife to my balls.”

Her lips twitched, almost forming a smile before she caught herself. “That’s different. I know you can handle me.”

“Can I?” His voice dipped lower, teasing, dangerous.

The air between them charged with something new. Something inevitable.

She swallowed hard, her eyes darting to his lips. “You’re the only one who can.” Her grip on the knife loosened, and it clattered to the floor.

In an instant, he had her wrists pinned above her head with one hand, his body pressing her against the wall.

“Can you handle me, Ro?” he murmured, his lips a breath away from hers.

She tried to glare at him, but her eyes were dark with desire. “Fuck you, Wilde.”

“Is that a request?” He nipped at her earlobe, drawing a soft gasp from her.

“I hate you,” she whispered, but there was no venom in her words.

“No, you don’t.” His free hand slid under her shirt, caressing the soft skin of her waist. “Tell me the truth now. Who are you running from? Who hurt you?”

And, like that, her resolve crumbled. She sagged against him, burying her face in his chest. “It’s bad, Davey. Really bad.”

“Talk to me.”

“I was hired to do a job, and I didn’t do it.” She inhaled deeply as if the words had been keeping her from taking a full breath, and a knot of dread tightened in his gut.

“What kind of job?”

She simply lifted her head and stared at him with those golden cat eyes. She didn’t have to speak. She’d finally raised her shutters enough that he saw the truth all over her face.

And he didn’t like what he saw.

“Oh, Jesus.” He backed away and paced a few steps, dragging a hand through his hair. “Fuck me, Rowan.”

“Maybe later,” she said with a faint smile.

He whirled back to face her. “You were supposed to kill someone.”

Her chin lifted. “Yes.”

“For money?”

Rowan’s eyes flashed with defiance. “It’s what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. I’m good at death.”

His stomach twisted. How many times had she walked into this apartment, dropped her bag by the door, stripped him down, and fucked him like it was the only thing tethering her to reality—only to walk right back out into a world where she ended lives for money?

And he’d never had a goddamn clue.

How long had she been living like this?

Who had she killed?

The thought made his blood go cold.

“Who was your target?”

She hesitated. Not a flicker, not a beat— a full hesitation. Long enough to make something in his chest lock up.

“It doesn’t matter.”

His breath hissed between his teeth. “The hell it doesn’t. If someone’s after you because you didn’t complete a hit, I need to know who and why.”

She stayed silent. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Refusing to give an inch.

His patience snapped, and he grabbed her by the shoulders, giving her a hard shake. “Dammit, Rowan!” His grip tightened, his voice rough, raw, breaking open. “Who was the fucking target?”

Her eyes blazed, but it wasn’t just defiance he saw in the golden depths. Not just fury. There was desperation. Maybe even fear.

“Rowan, tell me.”

“You. Okay? It was you.” She shoved his hands away. “So still think you love me?”