Chapter Thirty
Jo
My fingers danced over the keys, but I was typing gibberish. I’d just confessed the nature of my father’s work, the battery, the decades-long charge, the engine that could run on anything—everything.
No torture necessary. Apparently all a person had to do was sit beside me long enough, looking at me with stupidly gorgeous eyes, and I spilled everything like a villain in a B rated movie.
Nate was a man of wealth and influence. He could make me disappear and claim my work as his own.
He knew enough now that running wasn’t a viable option.
Terrifying.
Freeing.
Like betraying someone I loved and hugging someone I needed in the same breath.
There was no taking any of it back.
And me? I was waiting for him to declare something. That he was turning me in to the police? Maybe.
That he wanted some of the profit? Likely.
I knew every muscled inch of his body. I knew the sounds he made when he was excited, when he was coming and even as he slept.
But not what he would do with what I’d just told him.
I swallowed and turned to meet his gaze. Time suspended, and for one breathless moment I braced—expecting an interrogation, a show of greed, or an apology and a withdrawal of his support.
Instead, he nodded once. “Okay.”
A strangled sound escaped me—half laugh, half disbelief. “Okay? That’s all you’ve got?”
His eyes stayed steady on mine. “Was everything you told me the truth?”
My throat tightened. “Yes.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t try to take control of the moment. He just stayed with me.
No one had ever done that.
After a long beat, I heard myself ask, “So . . . what do we do now?”
He leaned back slightly, like he wanted to give me space instead of crowding me. “We figure out how to get your battery working.”
I stared at him. “I might fail.”
“Then we find another way to free your father.”
We? My mouth went dry. “Why do you care about what happens to him?”
Without missing a beat he said, “I care about you, Jo.”
Emotion hit fast—sudden, hot, unmanageable.
I wanted to cry.
Or bolt.
Or throw myself into his arms. Without thinking, I gushed, “I’d hug you, but we’d end up having sex again.”
His mouth curved—slow, warm, and sexy as hell. “Probably.”
Heat shot through me. I looked away, smiling helplessly even as I shook my head. “Yeah. Let’s not do that again. Not yet.”
“Not yet,” he echoed, low and certain—an entire promise wrapped in two words.
There was a shift between us then. Yes, the sexual tension was still there. Of course it was; it always was with him. But beneath it, something new had taken root.
Something far more dangerous than lust.
I wasn’t just attracted to him, I cared about him, too.
Worse—I was beginning to feel . . . safe.
Nate didn’t expect anything from me. He chose to stand beside me like I was important enough to put his life on hold for. Like I was worth fighting for.
Like what we felt for each other mattered.
And that was the most intoxicating—and terrifying—possibility of all.