His Only Assignment (Dangerous Devotion #4)

Chapter 3 Betty #2

I broke off, shaking my head, horrified at what I'd almost admitted.

"Made you feel what?" he asked softly, taking another step closer.

"Nothing." I tried to step back, but the counter was behind me, trapping me. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Well, it shouldn't."

But he was right there now, close enough to touch, and I could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath. Could see the intensity in his eyes, the barely leashed control.

"Made you feel what, Betty?" he repeated, his voice dropping into that low, rough register that used to undo me.

I swallowed hard. "Like I was yours."

The words hung between us, heavy and charged.

His eyes darkened, and I watched his hands curl into fists at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me.

"You are mine," he said, his voice rough. "You've always been mine."

"No." I shook my head, even as my body screamed at me to close the distance between us. "I'm not. Not anymore."

"You think ten years changed that?"

"It should have."

"But it didn't."

He was right. God, I hated that he was right.

Because standing here, looking at him, feeling the pull between us. It was like no time had passed at all. Like I was twenty-two again, so stupidly in love with him that I couldn't see straight.

"This can't happen," I whispered. "Whatever you think is still here... it's not. We're not those people anymore."

"You're right. We're not." He lifted a hand, and I thought he was going to touch me, but he stopped just short, his fingers hovering near my cheek. "I'm harder now. Colder. I've done things that would make you hate me even more than you already do."

"Hudson."

"But the way I feel about you?" His eyes locked on mine, and I felt the weight of his gaze all the way to my bones. "That hasn't changed. Not one damn bit."

My breath caught.

This was a mistake. Being this close to him, letting him say these things. It was a mistake.

But I couldn't move.

His fingers finally made contact, brushing against my cheek so gently it made my chest ache. My eyes fluttered closed before I could stop them, and I heard him inhale sharply.

"You need to go back to the couch," I said, but my voice had lost its edge.

"Is that what you want?"

No. God, no.

"Yes," I lied.

His thumb traced along my jaw, down to the corner of my mouth, and I shivered. Actually shivered, like some inexperienced girl who'd never been touched before.

"Liar," he said softly.

My eyes flew open. "What?"

"Your pulse is racing." His eyes dropped to my throat, where I could feel my heartbeat hammering against my skin. "Your breathing changed the second I touched you. Your pupils are dilated." His gaze came back to mine, knowing and dark. "You want me to stay."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"It means everything."

He leaned in, and for one heart-stopping moment, I thought he was going to kiss me. I could feel his breath on my lips, could see the intention in his eyes, could feel my own body leaning toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.

He stopped a breath away, so close I could almost taste him, and said, "When this happens, and it will happen, Betty, it's going to be because you ask for it. Because you tell me you want it. Because you can't stand being apart anymore."

"It's not going to happen."

"We'll see." He stepped back, his hand dropping away from my face, and the loss of his touch was so acute it felt like a physical pain.

He moved back to the couch without another word, settling against the cushions like he hadn't just set my entire body on fire with a single touch.

"Get some sleep, Betty," he said, picking up his phone. "I'll be right here if you need me."

I stood there for a long moment, my heart pounding, my body trembling with unfulfilled need.

Then I grabbed my water and walked back to my bedroom on unsteady legs, closing the door behind me.

I didn't lock it.

I told myself it was because I forgot.

But I knew the truth.

Part of me wanted him to follow.

I finally fell asleep sometime around four and woke up to sunlight streaming through my window and the smell of coffee.

For a disoriented moment, I forgot that Hudson was here. Forgot that someone was trying to kill me. Forgot everything except the simple pleasure of waking up to coffee I hadn't made.

Then reality crashed back in, and I groaned.

I grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 9:47 AM. I'd overslept. The bar didn't open until five, but I had inventory to do, orders to place, and a beer delivery coming at noon.

And I had to face Hudson after last night's kitchen confrontation.

Great. Just great.

I threw on jeans and a t-shirt, pulled my hair back into a messy ponytail, and emerged from my bedroom with as much dignity as I could muster.

Hudson was in the kitchen again. Of course he was. This time he was fully dressed, and he was sliding eggs onto a plate with the practiced ease of someone who did this every day.

"Morning," he said without turning around.

"You don't have to keep feeding me."

"Yes, I do." He set the plate on the counter and turned to face me. His eyes did that sweep thing again and I felt heat rise to my cheeks. "You look better. Sleep helps."

"Are we not going to talk about last night?"

"That depends." He handed me a cup of coffee, and leaned against the counter. "Do you want to talk about it?"

No. Absolutely not. I wanted to pretend it had never happened.

"There's nothing to talk about," I said, taking a sip of coffee to avoid looking at him. "Nothing happened."

"You're right. Nothing happened." His voice was mild, but when I glanced at him, there was a knowing glint in his eyes. "Yet."

"There is no 'yet.' There is no 'when this happens.' There is no." I broke off, shaking my head. "Whatever you think is going to happen between us, it's not."

"Okay."

His easy agreement should have made me feel better. It didn't. Because he wasn't agreeing, he was humoring me. Biding his time. Waiting for me to crack.

And the worst part? I wasn't entirely sure he was wrong.

I ate my breakfast in stubborn silence, refusing to acknowledge how good the eggs were or how nice it was to have someone cook for me. When I was done, I carried my plate to the sink and turned to face him.

"I need to be at the bar by eleven. Are you coming?"

"Where you go, I go." He pushed off the counter. "That's how this works."

"And your security people?"

"Martinez will meet us there. He's going to assess the bar, figure out what upgrades we need. Cameras, better locks, the works."

"That sounds expensive."

"Don't worry about the cost."

"I can pay."

"This isn't a negotiation." His voice was firm. "Your safety isn't something I'm willing to cut corners on. The cost doesn't matter."

I wanted to argue. To tell him I didn't need his money, didn't want his charity, and didn't want to owe him anything.

But I was tired. And scared. And honestly, the thought of having real security, cameras and locks and people who knew what they were doing, was the first thing that had made me feel safer since this whole nightmare began.

"Fine," I said finally. "But you're going to let me pay you back. Eventually."

"We can discuss that later." Which meant never. "Ready to go?"

"Let me grab my stuff."

I retreated to my bedroom to get my purse and keys, taking a moment to breathe. To center myself.

I could do this. I could spend the day with Hudson, work alongside him, exist in his orbit without losing my mind or my self-control.

I was a strong, independent woman. I'd survived worse than an attractive ex-boyfriend with control issues and a hero complex.

I just had to keep my walls up. Keep my distance. Keep reminding myself of all the reasons I had to hate him.

The problem was, every time I looked at him, those reasons seemed a little less important than the way he made me feel.

The Flame felt different with Hudson in it.

Smaller, somehow. Like his presence took up more space than one man should. He moved through the bar with a tactical precision that should have been ridiculous in a dive bar with a broken jukebox and beer signs on the walls.

But it wasn't ridiculous. It was... reassuring.

I hated that it was reassuring.

"Two exits," he said, more to himself than to me. "Front and back. Back exit leads to the alley where you witnessed the shooting. Windows are small but accessible. Good sight lines from behind the bar."

"Are you assessing my bar?"

"Every building is a potential battlefield." He turned to look at me. "Knowing the layout, the exits, the vulnerable points. It could save your life."

"It's a bar, Hudson. Not a war zone."

"Right now, for you, everywhere is a war zone."

I didn't have a response to that.

Because he was right.

Marco and Jesse arrived around eleven-thirty, and I watched their reactions to Hudson with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

Jesse's eyes went wide the second she saw him. I couldn't blame her. The man was objectively gorgeous, all sharp angles and barely contained intensity. She shot me a look that clearly said who is THAT? and I pretended not to see it.

Marco, on the other hand, looked him up and down with open suspicion. "New boyfriend?"

"No," I said quickly. "He's security."

"Security?" Marco raised an eyebrow. "Since when do we need security?"

"Since someone tried to run the boss off the road," Hudson said, stepping forward. He held out his hand. "Hudson Cole. Black Hawk Protection."

Marco shook it, looking slightly intimidated despite himself. "Marco. I bartend. Sometimes I do security when things get rowdy, but nothing like..." He gestured vaguely at Hudson's general everything. "This."

"I appreciate that you've been looking out for her," Hudson said, and there was genuine respect in his voice.

"But things are going to be different for a while.

I'll need you and your team to be extra vigilant.

Anyone acting suspicious, anyone asking about Betty, anyone who gives you a bad feeling, you tell me immediately. "

Marco nodded slowly. "Got it."

"Good." Hudson's attention shifted to Jesse. "Same goes for you."

Jesse nodded mutely, still staring at him like he'd stepped out of a movie.

I rolled my eyes. "Okay, everyone stop staring and get to work. We open in five hours, and I still need to deal with the beer delivery."

Marco and Jesse scattered, and Hudson took up position at the end of the bar, settling onto a stool where he had a clear view of both entrances.

"You can't sit there all day," I said.

"I'm not leaving you unprotected. Martinez will be here soon, and I need to brief him on the layout. Until then, I stay where I can see you."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it again. What was the point? He wasn't going to budge, and honestly, having him here made the constant knot of anxiety in my chest loosen just a little.

"Fine," I said. "But stay out of my way. I have work to do."

"I'll be invisible."

"You're about as invisible as a freight train."

He smiled. God, I'd forgotten how beautiful he was when he smiled. How it transformed his face from intimidating to devastating. How it made my heart do stupid, reckless things in my chest.

I turned away before he could see my reaction and busied myself with inventory.

It was going to be a long day.

I was right.

The day stretched on forever, made longer by Hudson's constant, watchful presence at the end of the bar.

Every time I moved, I felt his eyes on me.

Every time I bent to grab a bottle from a lower shelf, I could feel his gaze tracing over my body.

Every time I laughed at something Marco said or smiled at a delivery driver, I could feel the weight of Hudson's attention, heavy and possessive and impossible to ignore.

It was driving me insane.

Not because I wanted him to stop. That was the problem.

I wanted him to keep looking. Wanted him to watch me. Wanted his eyes on my body, my face, my every movement.

My traitorous body had apparently decided that ten years of anger and heartbreak meant nothing compared to the way Hudson Cole made me feel.

Martinez arrived around one, a compact, muscular man with a no-nonsense demeanor and a duffel bag full of equipment.

Jesse nearly started to drool as she saw him.

He and Hudson spent an hour walking through the bar, discussing sight lines and entry points and a dozen other tactical terms I didn't understand.

I tried to focus on my work, but I kept finding excuses to walk past them. I kept accidentally brushing against Hudson when I reached for something near where he was standing. Kept meeting his eyes and feeling that jolt of electricity every single time.

By the time we opened at five, I was a wreck.

Not because of the danger. Not because of Lang and Briggs and the constant threat hanging over my head.

Because of Hudson.

Because being near him and not touching him was its own kind of torture. Because my body remembered what his hands felt like, what his mouth tasted like, what it felt like to be consumed by him, and it wanted that again. Desperately.

I poured drinks and made small talk and pretended everything was normal, but inside, I was falling apart.

And the worst part? He knew.

I could see it in the smug set of his jaw. In the way his eyes lingered on me a beat too long. In the small, knowing smile that curved his lips whenever he caught me watching him.

He was waiting. Patient and confident and absolutely certain that I was going to crack.

And the terrifying thing was, I wasn't sure he was wrong.

By the time the bar started filling up with the Friday night crowd, I'd given myself approximately a thousand mental lectures about boundaries and self-preservation and the importance of not sleeping with men who'd broken your heart.

None of them were working.

Because every time I looked at Hudson, I felt my resolve crumble a little more.

When this happens, and it will happen, Betty, it's going to be because you ask for it.

His words echoed in my head, a promise and a threat all at once.

I wasn't going to ask. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

But God, I wanted to.

And that scared me more than anything Lang and Briggs could do.