Page 81 of The Final Cut

My pulse kicks once, then harder. “We’re discussing my sister right now, Nash.”

“We are.”

“And you want me to come over there.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re three seconds from bolting; now, come here.”

I swallow. He is not wrong.

I walk to him because refusing would look too much like proof. He sits on the edge of the table, knees slightly apart, and pulls me between them with one hand at my waist. His palm is warm through my shirt. His other hand comes to the back of my neck, thumb resting just beneath my ear, not squeezing. Holding.

My breath catches. He feels it.

“Look at me.”

“I am looking at you, jackass.”

“Not like you want to bite through my throat.”

“Just get on with it, already.”

His mouth barely moves. “Try.”

I meet his eyes.

Blue. Cold, if someone does not know better. I know better now. The cold is discipline. The heat lives underneath it, banked and dangerous and turned toward me with a focus that makes the rest of the room recede.

He lowers his voice. “If you come with us and Isabel sees you, Delia becomes a knife at your throat. You understand that?”

I want to deny it, but I can’t.

“In other words, she’s going to use my sister against me either way.”

“Yes. But if you’re not in reach, Delia gets men coming for her who can move without having to worry about you at the same time.”

My eyes burn. “You’re asking me to trust that while I sit here twiddling my thumbs, she won’t get hurt. That she won’t disappear for another fifteen years.”

“No.” Nash’s thumb moves once against my neck. “I am asking you to trust that we know she may get hurt trying to get her out, and we’re still making the move that gives her the best chance of leaving alive.”

I drop my head forward.

The truth is brutal enough that I almost prefer comfort.

I pull back, but his hand tightens at my waist just enough to keep me there.

“Stay.”

The word goes through me low.

“Nash.”

“Breathe first.”

“I don’t want to breathe.”