Page 52

Saint

The streetlamps filtered through the loft windows, and Saint paused the video and put his notebook down. Riley’s head rested on his chest, and he let out a contented sigh. Gold and red streaked through the brown strands, twisting together in a tangled knot, and all he wanted was to run his fingers through it.

He was a simple soldier, after all.

She breathed softly, having fallen asleep on him or in near proximity for the second time this evening. It was the most trust she’d shown, and she didn’t realize it. Her reaction earlier indicated this was unusual for her.

But it was late, and she wouldn’t sleep well all jammed up on the couch.

“Riley,” Saint whispered as he ran a hand along her arm, skimming the fabric of his hoodie she was still wearing. In too deep, too soon.

He hadn’t expected anything else. His self-preservation extended to physical threat only.

He called her name again.

She jerked up, and he took his arm off her shoulders. Grey eyes blinked up at him, alarm giving way as she realized where she was. A small smile made his chest clench.

“Where are you sleeping tonight, sweet girl?” Saint tried not to put anything into the question, but his heart hammered as she looked around and got her bearings.

“What time is it?” she asked, voice edged with sleep.

“Eleven.”

“Where do you—um—want me to sleep?” She looked up at him, and that wariness crept back in.

“That’s not my choice to make. I’ll take you home in a second if that’s what you’d like.” Saint exhaled. “If you want to stay here, I’d li—that’d be fine.”

A spark leapt back into her eyes, and he held in his relief.

“You don’t have to be so careful with me. I can guarantee you I’ve been through worse.”

Fuck.

Saint reached out and ran his thumb along her cheekbone. “That’s what worries me. I’m not in a rush.”

Riley searched his face, her eyelashes clumped from where she’d cried earlier. It shouldn’t have been beautiful.

“Saint, I’m fine. And I want to stay.” She faltered for a moment. “If you—”

“Yes. I want that.” The words tumbled out. So much for not pressuring her, you asshole.

She laughed, a quiet puff of air that barely stirred the dust motes.

He shifted and reminded himself that she could walk. She didn’t need to be carried, no matter how badly he wanted the contact.

Saint stood and held out his hand. She let him pull her up. The little pieces of trust she already gave him only made him hungry for more. She felt like one of his, someone he was responsible for, and he barely knew her.

And she wasn’t his. She was a civilian.

All the darkness he’d left was back in the desert where it belonged. It had no place here.

Riley looked around Saint’s bedroom; the desk with two monitors, the dresser with nothing on top. Her eyes lingered on the king-sized bed, pressed against the back wall. Blackout blinds kept out the yellow streetlights, and the door was thick. Aaron and Wheeler had been known to crash at any time of night—at least she wouldn’t be woken up by strange men.

Saint grabbed a spare toothbrush and a stack of clean towels and showed her the bathroom. Anticipation and nerves fought while he armed the security system and locked up, worse than before an op. He shook it off and shut down his computer, tucking the chair under the desk when he was done. Riley came out of the bathroom and wouldn’t meet his eye, probably as nervous as he was. She didn’t need to be.

Despite what he’d been, self-control had never been the issue. And he wasn’t lying earlier. Waiting for her to want anything he could offer was far more satisfying than pushing for it. And he was pretty sure she already wanted—if the lingering looks she snuck his way were any indication.

It was a question of readiness.