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“I don’t regret anyone I’ve ever killed. The end. You’re going to have to decide if you can live with that answer when this is over, when I get you your freedom back because I will. Unless you grab that gun and kill me. Just make sure you won’t have any regrets.”
He releases me but doesn’t walk away. “The gun is right there in the kitchen waiting on you. I’m surprised you left it. That’s what you wanted. The damn gun.”
“I don’t want the damn gun. Not to use on you.”
He studies me several long beats. “Don’t call me Noah. Ever again. I’m Aaron. Keep it that way.”
With that, it’s as if he’s shut a door. He turns away and walks to a small bar in the corner, pouring himself a whiskey. It’s then that I realize the assassin part of his story overshadowed everything else. I find myself closing the space between us, and when we are once again facing each other, his stare is intense, unreadable, heavy.
“You took down a kingpin?”
“Yes. I took down a kingpin.”
“And you lost everything?”
He downs his drink and sets it down. “You know my story. My parents died when I was ten. My sister died when I was twenty. There was no you in my life back then. What cost was there? Don’t make me a hero. I’m not the man I was back then.”
“Are you trying to convince me to trust you or to hate you?”
He drags me to him, his fingers tangling in my hair. “I don’t regret who I kill, but I do look forward to the next one. I’m so fucking not a hero that I never even gave a shit what that meant for you.” He sets me aside. “I’ll get you out of this. I owe you that much. And then I’ll let you go.”
That cuts and burns. Now he’s not even fighting for me. My eyes burn. “I hate that you’re playing mind games.” I turn and walk away, but he catches my arm.
I whirl on him. “Stop grabbing me. Stop. I need to think.”
He releases me. “You have plenty of time. There’s a blizzard outside. You might want to grab that gun and hold on tight because you’re stuck with me a while.”
I stand there, staring at him, the part of me that believes I know him, certain that I’ve hurt him. I want to step to him. I want to touch him. I want to talk to him, but I’m not objective with this man. I need to breathe. I need to think. I back up and walk to the kitchen, the only place I know that I can escape to right now. Once I’m there, I notice what I didn’t before because of my hyper-focus on Noah; the wind whips and whistles beyond the cabin. I grab my hot cocoa and gulp it down when I swear I need that whiskey he’s drinking. I don’t focus on him trying to scare me out there. I focus on trying to understand him, understand us. I go back to the past and try to remember what was real and what was fake.
The past—back in that bathroom, the first night after we met—
I still can’t believe he’s in the bathroom of the bar after I caught him flirting with that woman. Or maybe he wasn’t flirting with her. Maybe she is a married client with kids because right now, he’s kissing me, and I don’t want him to stop. I’m against the bathroom wall, his big, hard body pressed to mine, and I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I only know the taste of him, one-part whiskey, one-part demand—the woodsy, wonderful scent of him, and his touch, his strong hands molding me closer.
His hands settle on my waist, his lips lingering above mine, his breath a warm, wicked promise of another kiss I want so damn badly. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you all day,” he murmurs, his voice somehow both silk and sandpaper that I feel on every nerve ending I own.
Nor have I been able to stop thinking about him, which makes those words exactly what I want to hear. “The girl who fell on the ice?” I laugh nervously, trying to caution myself not to read too much into anything with this man, not when I’m this hypersensitive to anything he says or does. “I’m sure you couldn’t stop thinking about me.”
He strokes my hair off of my face and fixes me in a brown-eyed stare, he’s so damn tall, dark and good-looking that it steals my breath. “You were adorable and sexy this morning.”
He thinks me being clumsy is adorable and sexy? “You were a gentleman,” I say. “That left a lasting impression.”
“Is that right?” he asks, mischief in his eyes. “My manners left an impression? That’s why you came here tonight?”
I blush, and I’m really not a blusher. “And I like your suit.”
He laughs, a low masculine rumble I feel from head to toe. “Is that right?” he asks again.
“Yes,” I say. “It is.”
Someone knocks on the door, and I jolt. “Oh God,” I whisper, grabbing the lapels of that very suit right now. “They’re going to know we were in here together.”
“Then maybe we should just fuck and make the scolding we’ll get worth it.”
My eyes go wide. “No.”
He laughs. “I’m teasing. Mostly.” He takes my hand. “Leave this to me. I’ll handle it.” I don’t have time to argue because he’s already charging forward and taking me with him.
“Noah!” I call out, using his name for the first time on my own, and it feels as intimate as I feel panicked right now.
