Page 35 of Untamed Sinner

"Fuck," I whisper, pushing a chair out of the way with my foot.

In tandem, we move through the kitchen into the living room, clearing each space methodically. I follow, my weapon trained on the blind spots he can't cover. We work in sync without speaking—a rhythm that shouldn't exist between two people who barely know each other.

The office is the worst. Filing cabinets are emptied, papers all over the floor, and desk drawers hang open. The safe in the wall has been drilled through, the door hanging at an angle.

Hendricks lowers his weapon and holsters it. Crouching in front of the safe, he touches the metal filings. “Cold. Whoever did this is long gone. Might even be weeks, since there aren’t any tracks or footprints outside. The last rain was three weeks ago.”

"They were obviously looking for something," I say, holstering my weapon too. I kneel near the desk, running my fingers over the scattered papers. "Three guesses what it was."

"The notebook." Hendricks scans the room. "They didn't find it."

"Because I already took it." I stand, moving to the bookshelf. My hands trail over the spines, pausing occasionally. "But they don't know that."

“Or they do, since I’ve been hired to take you to Ashford.” He prowls around the room, looking at everything without touching.

Not me. I move on instinct, not pattern—touching things, feeling for inconsistencies. I turn around to suggest we move to another room. “I⁠—”

He's right there, and I almost collide into his chest. He reaches out to steady me, his hands gripping my arms firmly.

We both freeze.

He’s close—so close that I can see the flecks of silver in his gray eyes, the faint scar above his left eyebrow. Close enough that if I leaned forward six inches, I could finally find out if he tastes like what I’ve imagined.

Delicious.

Fiery.

Dangerous.

His chest rises and falls evenly with each breath. I feel the heat radiating off his body and catch the faint scent of soap and something darker that smells like sex.

Neither of us moves.

The air between us is electric, charged with everything we're not saying—with everything we’re withholding from each other. His lips part slightly, and I watch the movement like it's the only thing in the world that matters.

I should step back and put distance between us. In a matter of days, I’m going to take care of Ashford and then move on. Getting involved would be stupid.

But I don't move—and neither does he.

36

HENDRICKS

The line I drew was supposed to be control. She has to ask. She has to consent. She has to choose.

It’s the right thing to do—the only thing to do, given what she's survived. Given who I am.

But right now, standing in Turner's office with her body inches from mine, that line feels like the cruelest form of torture I've ever inflicted on myself.

I can see everything. The gold flecks in her hazel eyes. The scar on her cheekbone. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath, faster than normal.

She's not calm.

Neither am I.

My hands are still gripping her arms. I want to believe I’m steadying her, keeping her from colliding into me, but I'm the one who needs steadying. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to pull her closer instead of letting go—to close the six inches between us and find out if losing control is as inevitable as it feels right now.

I don't.