Page 32 of Every Last Breath

This should’ve been about the mission from A to Z. No room for anything personal.

She shampooed, conditioned, and hopped out of the shower. As she squeezed water from her hair with a towel, a shadow moved in her peripheral vision.

Quick.

Quiet.

Someone was in her bedroom.

A pins-and-needles sensation flooded her fingers. She itched to grab a gun.

Fight mode switch flipped, she wrapped the towel around her body and crept to the lower bathroom cabinet. She took out the box of tampons. With her pulse at a sprint, she pulled her loaded Boberg XR9 shorty from inside. Thumb-flicked off the safety.

Small and lightweight, the gun had the same stopping power as a Glock. Hard lessons and the scars they’d left had taught her there was no such thing as being overprepared.

She eased toward her bedroom, slipped through the crack of the door, and pressed into the corner of the room to her left.

A man stood on the other side of her bed, looking out the window.

Cole.

The tension in her chest slackened. As she lowered the gun, he turned, facing her.

“Holy shit. What happened?” She rushed to him and looked at his arm. His jacket was frayed as if pierced by a bullet. The blood on his shoulder stilled her.

Did he get into an altercation with Ilya?

Weariness hung heavy on his face, his solemn gaze a weight on her shoulders. “Flesh wound. Sniper bullet caught Ilya in the chest. Second bullet hit me.”

The news rocked her back on her heels as if it’d been a physical blow. He’d gone to see his brother because of her and had almost been killed. By a sniper? She touched his shoulder where the bullet had shredded a hole in his jacket, and he winced.

“Is your brother okay?” She couldn’t believe she was asking, but Ilya was his family.

“Not critical. If I hadn’t gotten him out of the way, it would’ve killed him.”

And the world would be a better place. “You’re probably glad you were there for him.”

He clicked his tongue. “Not so sure.”

She met his eyes, a question tap-dancing on her tongue. Did he get the passcode?

It hung between them, smothering other words. But asking him would only fuel his distrust.

He grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “What happened to you?” He stared at her cheek, his brows creased, mouth in a hard frown.

Sweet of him to be concerned when he was the one bleeding on her account. “Occupational byproduct. Looks worse than it feels.” She put her palm to his chest and absorbed the thudding of his heart, grateful for the rock-steady beat. “Let me clean you up.”

She hurried to the bathroom.

Not only had she roped him into this mess, but she’d almost lost him for good. Again. Hands trembling, she tucked her gun back into the box of tampons, pulled out the med kit, and took it to the bedroom.

She stilled, down to her fingertips, in the doorway. He sat on her bed, waiting. Bare to the waist, legs spread wide. The striking tats on his muscle-corded arms held her spellbound as she tried to absorb the sight of him.

Her belly tightened with awareness, sparking an inappropriate tingle.

But the blood on his shoulder revived her urgency, and she tore her gaze away.

“This is what you want.” He held out something in his hand.