“I can do that,” she said.
Then we again settled and I watched.
Patience had been drilled into me from my earliest day, so I had no trouble waiting, letting the seconds go by as I considered my plan of action.
While I stared at Milan.
I did my best to shield my staring from her, and if she noticed, or was bothered by me looking at her, she didn’t give it away. Even as she sank lower into her chair, her posture relaxing, her face eventually softening in sleep, I still watched.
I couldn’t quite name the feeling that rushed through me, the thoughts when I looked at her, but I felt them, thought them.
Not that I had any basis to think anything, feel anything, and I knew that in any other situation I probably would not have given Milan a second thought.
But I was now, and I couldn’t, in fact, tear my eyes away from her. I felt oddly protective of her, and I also desired her. I wanted the sun to delay its arrival, giving me more time to watch her as she slept peacefully, her face so sweet and innocent in repose.
I’d never felt this way about anyone, never wanted to protect anyone, but I did her.
Now wasn’t the time to try to puzzle out why. Probably never would be.
Once I handled this crisis, I’d slip back into my role, shepherding things along until the next crisis sprung up.
There’d be no opportunity for lustful gazes at a regular woman.
When was the last time I had seen someone like Milan? Talked to someone like her?
I racked my brain as I watched her sleep, trying to come up with an answer.
It occurred to me I probably never had. My entire life, as long as I could remember, had been in service of the business. The school I had gone to had been more of a training ground, the people I had dealt with before and now all somehow connected.
But she wasn’t. Not in the least.
And a part of me craved her for it.
I tried to fight those thoughts and then decided to stop.
Nothing would come of it, so I allowed myself to enjoy the view, feel whatever craziness I was feeling, and when the sun came up, I would be gone.
Milan
A hand on my shoulder, warm, gentle, pulled me from sleep. I started to stretch, blinked, and then blinked again, the early morning sun coming through the curtains. And then I looked up and my eyes clashed with brown ones.
I smiled, blinked.
Such beautiful eyes. Eyes I could lose myself in. I started to do just that before something pulled me up short.
Those eyes, that face.
It was him.
From last night.
A warmth filled me as I remembered him next to me in my car, but it faded some—not nearly as much as it should have, though—when I remembered everything else that had happened.
I watched him as he watched me and saw the realization that played out in my mind play out on his face.
“I’m leaving now,” he said.
My first thought should’ve been relief, but that wasn’t what I felt. I felt a sad disappointment, almost crushing, and it got more intense when he lifted his hand from my shoulder.
I missed its warmth, its strength, immediately.
Last night, I could have blamed the shock for my reaction to him. But I had no such excuse this morning. So instead of examining it, I ignored it.
“I… I feel like I should say something, but I don’t know what to say. ‘Thank you for not killing me’ doesn’t seem right,” I said.
He chuckled. “It’s good enough,” he said.
He started toward the door, and I reached out before my mind could process a thought. I barely grazed his hand, his skin warm, alive against mine.
He stopped and looked back at me, curious, but not surprised.
My heart boomed, and I could barely speak around it, but I pushed the words out in a rush. “Take care of yourself, Priest,” I said.
He stopped and then retraced the two steps that separated us. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion as he leaned forward, his warmth, the masculine scent of his body surrounding me.
My heart stopped, everything inside me going still as he leaned forward and brushed his lips against mine.
It was barely a touch, only a kiss in that his lips touched mine, but that featherlight touch was enough to set my body aflame and enough to prove to me that whatever I had felt last night, the desire for him had been real.
He broke the kiss and then stood to his full, intimidating height, his eyes on mine.
“You do the same, Milan,” he said.
And then he was gone.
Eight
Milan
By midafternoon, I had almost completely convinced myself that I had imagined the entire thing. That the shooting, Priest, the whole day had been a particularly vivid dream.
Probably would have been able to if I hadn’t still remembered how I had felt when I’d touched his fingers, remembered the searing heat of his gaze against my skin. Remembered the brush of his lips against mine, the faintest whisper of a touch that still tingled even now, hours later.