Page 115 of Shadow

He’d meant it. But the words had come out wrong. Had sounded ominous instead of honest.

And then he’d almost kissed her anyway. Had leaned in despite the lie.

He didn’t know what had stopped him, really. A tug, a nudge…

Honor?

Kissing her while lying felt wrong. Because taking something from her under false pretenses felt like betrayal.

But lying in bed unable to sleep—ribs aching where stitches pulled, forearm throbbing, head pounding—Asher realized stepping back had been just another lie.

It’d probably made her think he didn’t want her.

So he needed to tell her everything. Tonight. Now.

Asher got up, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. Moved carefully—everything hurt.

Then he went downstairs in darkness. The house was quiet. Just the sound of the creek outside and wind through pine trees. The floorboards were cool under his bare feet.

His office was at the back of the house. Past the kitchen. Past the living room with its massive fireplace. Past the windows looking out at mountains dark against a star-filled sky.

Asher opened the door. Flipped on the light.

Wood paneling. Built-in bookshelves on two walls. A heavy oak desk—handcrafted, the kind that lasted generations. Leather chair. The room smelled of old books and leather and furniture polish.

And books. Hundreds of them, filling the shelves. Some his. Most his father’s.

Westerns. Zane Grey and Elmore Leonard. The complete collection of Louis L’Amour novels. Stories about men who kept their promises. Who protected the weak. Who stood up for what was right.

Men his father had probably wanted to be but never was.

He moved to the desk. Sat. Opened the bottom drawer where he kept everything locked away.

Files. Recordings. Photographs. Financial records. Eighteen months of evidence against the Shadow Syndicate. All of it documented. All of it proof that Asher Morrison had been gathering intelligence. Had been building a RICO case.

Proof that he wasn’t the enemy, despite what the rumors inside the FBI might be.

Proof that might make her understand.

Or might make her hate him for lying.

He stood. Moved toward the door. She’d agreed to stand first watch, given his injuries today.

The kitchen light was on, casting a warm glow across hardwood floors. The smell of coffee brewing—rich and dark—hung in the air.

Daphne stood at the counter, her back to him. Hair down around her shoulders instead of pulled back. Wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Pouring coffee into a mug.

She must have heard him, because she turned. “You okay?”

“No.”

She frowned. “You took a hard hit today.”

Yeah, that wasn’t it.

She poured him a mug of coffee, held it out to him.

Asher took the mug. Their fingers brushed. Brief, but her touch could just turn his entire body electric.