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“Whatever I want to hear?” I raise a brow and swing my body around to face him. “Or the actual truth?”
“The truth. Okay?” He implores me with beseeching eyes, kicking me in the girlie parts with the thinly veiled emotion in his words. “I’m not going to lie to you again.”
I tilt my head in scrutiny and my tongue sneaks out to moisten my dried lower lip. He watches the movement, his focus turning predatory in a snap. I can’t resist that shit.
Why the hell can’t I resist that shit?
“I’ll follow you inside once you admit that Hunter isn’t your real name.”
“That’s it?” He chuckles. “That’s what you want to know first?”
I nod. It’s a start.
“Okay. You got me. Hunter’s not my real name.”
“What is it?”
He hitches a thumb over my shoulder, pointing toward the door. “Follow me inside and I’ll tell you.”
“No.” I glower. “Your name first.”
He crouches between my bent legs, places his hands on my knees, and peers up at me. “It’s Luke.”
He could easily lie. I wouldn’t know any different. But I believe him. I swear to God he’s telling me the truth.
“You’re not lying.”
“No, I’m not, but nobody else around these parts knows my name. Not Decker. Not Torian. I’d like to keep it that way. Okay?”
“Then why tell me?” Why bring me here? Why do any of this?
“Because I want there to be trust between us.”
I frown, not appreciating the momentary dip in my pulse. “I don’t want to trust you.”
“And I don’t blame you for that.”
His honesty is seductive. I guess seeing a major change in a man will have that affect. Or maybe it’s like he said—I need to settle the adrenaline.
I scoot closer, his palms hitching higher up my thighs. My chest pounds with the need for comfort. My lips tingle at the thought of his kiss.
“I’m ready to go inside now,” I whisper.
He nods and pushes to his feet, offering me a hand. I place my fingers against his and wince at how good it feels. There’s strength in our co
He leads me to the door, down the dark hall, then stops to flick on a light. A massive living area is exposed. Sofas, a dining table, a large television, and a sparkling kitchen. It’s clean, stylish, and uncharacteristically homely.
I release his hand and take a few steps ahead, letting it all sink in. “Your home is nice.”
“You sound surprised.” He walks by me, into the kitchen to pull open one of the glossy white cupboards.
“I’m not familiar with the murderer stereotype. I guess I didn’t expect it to be so…”
“Normal?” He grabs two scotch glasses and places them on the island counter. “I don’t fit a stereotype, Sarah. And I’m not the horrible person you think I am. Not entirely, anyway.”
I hope that’s true. In fact, I’m banking on it.
“What do you want to drink?” He moves to a high cupboard above the stainless-steel, double-door fridge. “Scotch? Gin? I think I’ve got some vodka in here somewhere, too.”
“No, thanks. The last thing I need is alcohol.”
He frowns at me over his shoulder. “How about coffee?”
“Caffeine isn’t a good idea either. I’m fine, really.”
He grabs a bottle of scotch and returns to the island bench.
My grief returns, not only for Brent, but for myself. This murderous, manipulative man has a comforting, tidy home to return to. He has his shit together. He functions better than I do.
It isn’t fair.
Nothing in this world is fair.
“I don’t know what to do for you.” His admission cuts me to the core. “Tell me what you need.”
“I don’t need anything,” I lie. The reality is, I need everything. Anything. Something.
He places the bottle down on the counter and walks toward me. My heartrate increases with every step. I don’t want him close. But I also want it so bad it hurts, ripping and slicing me to shreds from the inside out.
He stops in front of me, and I fight the need to touch him. To reach out and steal his strength. He raises a hand, his fingers drifting close.
“Please don’t,” I plead.
That hand descends, my heart falling along with it.
“Is that a directive for tonight?” he asks. “Or forever?”
“Forever would be the smart answer,” I admit.
“But it’s not what you want.” This time he raises his hand and doesn’t stop until those fingers are tangling in the loose strands that have fallen from my ponytail.
I turn my head away and his touch moves to my cheek, my jaw. He burns a trail along my skin, devastating my senses.
“He’s all I had.” I face him, his sympathy sinking its teeth into my ribs.
“You’ve got me.”
“The man who kills for a living.” I release a derisive laugh. “You know, I’ve actively tried to take down people like you.” And yet I can’t step away. Not even an inch. “You have no respect for life.”
“That’s not true.”
“How can you say that with a straight face?”
His jaw hardens, and his nostrils flare. “Don’t judge me until you know me.” He stalks back to the kitchen, pouring himself a generous glass of scotch.
“Then tell me.” I follow, slower, more cautious. “Have I got this murderous thing all wrong? Was Dan the only man you killed?”
He raises the glass, drinks the contents in three heavy swallows, then slams it down on the counter. He glares and pours himself another.
“Well?” I ask.
“He wasn’t the first,” he snarls. “And he won’t be the last.” He raises the glass again, this time staring at me over the rim as he takes a sip. “And what about you, princess? How i
Of course he knows about Jacob. How can I still be surprised?
“Dan abused women habitually, and Jacob killed my family. Neither one of them is i
He lets out a harsh laugh, then raises his brows and his glass, as if in toast. “Well, at least we have the same work ethic.”
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve never hurt anyone i
His jaw ticks. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. I may have killed a lot of people, but none of them were good.”
“What about children?”
“Jesus Christ.” He smacks the glass down and runs a hand through his hair. “I’ve never killed a fucking kid. I never will.”
“Women?” I ask.
His chin lifts, almost imperceptibly, and he scowls at me. “One. Indirectly.”
“How indirectly?” My pulse thunders in my throat as I wait for a reply.
A myriad of emotions flicker across his features—a
Yes. Everything.
“For now, I’ve just got one more question.” I swallow. “Why did you save me tonight?”