Page 33 of Every Last Breath

A white envelope with elegant gold script across the top that read Ilya Reznikov.

Triumph burst in her chest like fireworks. Cole had gotten the passcode with plenty of time to spare. They’d be able to access the auction tomorrow. Thank goodness. She wanted to rip open the envelope and verify the contents, but his cold stare pinned her.

Calculating, measuring her response. A test.

Something inside her quivered with desperation to pass.

She eased between his legs. Ignoring the envelope, she opened the med kit and set it beside him. Her damp curls fell, dripping on his chest.

A twitch coursed through him, dragging her gaze down the chiseled landscape of his body.

“Sorry.” She corralled her hair over her shoulder out of his way.

“I don’t mind.” His voice was husky and low. Thick with promise.

Or maybe it was just her desperate imagination.

Cole set the envelope on the nightstand next to her cell phone, ran his hands down his legs, and gripped his knees.

Her mind warred with her heart, and her mouth was mired somewhere in the middle. Words were usually effortless when she was on the job. This time, not knowing the right thing to say, she bit her tongue.

She put on latex gloves, set out gauze and saline solution. Cleaning the wound would burn like hell. “This is going to hurt.”

“When it comes to you, I’m accustomed to pain.”

The sting of his words bled through her, but she didn’t let her equanimity falter.

“Whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” She squeezed the saline into the wound.

He gave a sharp hiss and tightened his jaw.

The bullet had clipped his deltoid, but there wasn’t any damage to the axillary nerve. She tore open a packet of Celox, a grainy blood-clotting agent that didn’t burn like some others and would help him heal faster. Rubbing a little powder deep in his wound, she worked quickly to minimize his discomfort. She pressed clean gauze to it, wrapping it with a pressure bandage.

“There. Should be good until we get you stitches. Lucky there’s no major damage.”

“You’re pretty good at that.” He nodded down at his arm.

She tugged the gloves off. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” Patching up herself and battle brothers in the field was her only hobby. No time for anything else in her life.

His gaze found hers and his dark eyes held her ensnared.

The dangerous edge running through him, drawing her in, had always been the backbone of the young man she’d fallen for. But the wear and tear of time looked good on him, worked in his favor. A sophisticated accessory. As did the arresting refinement of his body, hard curves and sharp angles. More tempting than ever.

Brutally gorgeous. He’d been hers once. She’d give anything to have him again. For a day. For an hour. Damn, she’d take ten minutes.

She caressed his cheeks, leaning into the warmth of his body. A tremble of longing shivered through the center of her, and she didn’t hide it.

He brushed his knuckles over her bruised cheek. Her skin tingled, nerve endings awash in the muscle memory of his strong hands sweeping over her in the darkness, their limbs inexorably tangled, his strained breath in her ear, sweat coating their skin.

The heat in his eyes burned bright and hot as a signal fire, inviting her home. The knots in her stomach loosened as new ones bunched in her chest. Old scars growing sore as a fresh wound opened. The years she’d spent piecing herself back together, trying to recover from the agonizing loss of this—while he was out in the world, alive and well all along.

She swatted the thought away, not wanting anything to spoil those ten minutes.

He cupped the back of her leg, caressing bare skin, pulling her closer. Her thighs quivered and her breath grew shallow. He slid his palm to cradle her head, guiding her lips toward his.

The suspended moment whetted her anticipation. Her toes curled into the carpet, heart palpitating wildly like hummingbird wings in her throat.

His mouth claimed hers, or hers claimed his. She didn’t know, didn’t care, lost in the shocking relief of the kiss.