Chapter One Hundred and One
Georgia
H e made cookies.
I smelled the sugar and chocolate as soon as I opened the bedroom door, and I wanted to weep. No, I wanted to shove him right into that river he was always telling me to stay away from.
With no way to escape except by going past the stupid kitchen, I sighed.
Then I glanced back at the big windows in the spare bedroom that overlooked the very river I wanted to use as my weapon of choice. Stupid river, and stupid windows, and stupid house that was perched on the side of a practical fucking cliff. I could go out the windows. I could even jump off the small deck on the other side of the single slider door across the bedroom. But the drop was at least as far as I was tall, and I wasn’t a masochist. Or sadist. Or whichever one was the one where you liked to hurt yourself.
Okay, maybe I liked other people hurting me during sex. Not people, just him —and not anymore because I liked his version of sex. Okay, I loved it. And fine, maybe I wouldn’t mind if he’d pull my hair just a teensy, tiny bit harder sometimes, but not always, because he already pulled really hard. But still, I wasn’t so far gone that I was going jump off the balcony or out the window just to avoid walking past him.
I was an adult.
A stupid, stupid fucking adult, which meant you got to do anything you wanted, but nine times out of ten, you wound up having to do what you needed.
Like walk past infuriating SEALs.
Inhaling the goodness I was vowing not to cave for, even if I was already salivating, I hiked my purse up higher on my shoulder and grabbed my boots.
Then I walked out of the bedroom and saw him.
Shirtless, jeans, bare feet, muscles rippling—he was using an oven mitt to pull a tray of fresh-baked cookies out of the oven while another tray sat baked and waiting on the counter.
My first thought was, how fucking long had my shower been that he’d been able to whip up two batches of fresh-baked cookies already?
My second was that I was fucked.
Royally and truly fucked.
Because next to the sheets of fresh-baked cookies, I saw the full coffeepot and my caramel latte creamer on the counter.
I whispered into the void that was my resolve. “I hate you, universe.”
“Get your ass out here,” a bossy SEAL ordered as he grabbed a mug from one of the upper cupboards that were built for seven-foot-tall Neanderthal warriors.
“No.”
“Not a request.”
Because I being stupid, I argued. “I’m leaving.”
“You’re going to sit your ass down, eat some fucking cookies, and listen to what I have to say.” Glancing over his shoulder, he met my gaze with his special brand of heroin-laced dominance and steeled resolve. “Then you can do whatever the fuck you want.”
“I want coffee.” Petulant. I sounded petulant. Screw you, adulthood.
“Fucking shocker.”
“Good coffee,” I amended, already hating myself.
“I don’t make bad coffee. Get the fuck over here.” He reached for the pot.
He didn’t make bad anything . That was the problem. “If those cookies are good, it changes nothing.”
Setting the coffeepot down before he’d poured any into the mug, he turned and gave me his lethal stare.
My core pulsed, desire swept through my veins like liquid adrenaline, and I rolled my eyes.
His turned molten, and he took a step toward me.
“Fine!” Dropping my crap, I threw my arms up in surrender—for now. “I’m coming. You happy?”
“If it was on my cock, I might be.” He jerked his head toward one of the kitchen stools at the island. “Sit the fuck down, woman.”
“I do have a name.”
“One of the many things we’re going to discuss.”
“Gee, great. Is your swearing at me included in that conversation?” I didn’t care. I truly didn’t. I’d grown up around it. I knew it wasn’t directed at me. And honestly, it was a part of who Blade was, and there wasn’t anything I wanted to change about him. Except that he was mad at me right now. Which I hated. But also knew it wasn’t one hundred percent his fault.
Whatever.
Apparently, relationships were hard.
Grabbing the coffeepot, he threw me another look, but then his tone came down from lethal to tired dominance. “Please sit your sexy ass down, Lioness. Better?”
Okay, maybe relationships weren’t that hard. “Much.” I sat. “Thank you.”
“Welcome,” he muttered, concentrating on pouring coffee and adding an unhealthy amount of creamer, which was exactly how I liked it.
“It smells good,” I admitted, giving him one concession.
Tipping his chin as he poured another coffee, this one black, he then plated four giant cookies and brought everything to the kitchen island.
Before taking the seat next to me, he put the plate between us and my mug in front of me.
Then he did something Blade never did.
He drank his coffee and stalled.
Staring at the cookies, I drank mine.
A clock I’d never noticed ticked softly somewhere in the cabin.
Wind battered the tall pines.
Outside the double-paned windows, the river rushed silently on.
Resting his elbows on the counter, holding his mug, Blade stared straight ahead.
Then his voice came without any intonation. “Try a cookie, Lioness.”
My stomach twisted. “I don’t think I can.”
Setting his coffee down, he turned to face me. “I have a confession.”
The whisper rolled out on a wave of anxiety. “ Oh God .” He was going to say something he wouldn’t be able to take back. I could feel it in my bones. “I changed my mind.” I couldn’t do this. “I’m not cut out for combat honesty.” With shaking hands, I set my coffee down. “I should go.” I stood. “I’m gonna go.”
His large hand wrapped around my nape, and he said the worst, worst thing he could have. “This isn’t about you, Georgia.”
Yeah, it was. It so, so was. “Whatever you’re going to say next, don’t.” I couldn’t take back what I’d said. He’d heard it. This was only fair. “I don’t want a confession. I can’t handle confessions.” Tears welled. “Confessions are bad.”
Cold blue eyes stared at me.
My stomach plummeted, my heart stopped, and I knew.
He didn’t have to say anything.
He didn’t love me.
He would never love me.
Jerking out of his grasp, I made it one step.
Then both of our cell phones rang—mine from my purse, his from his pocket—and an alarm I had never heard before sounded from the panel on the wall.