Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lyra
Trying to process what he just said, I stare at him.
Share his bed. Not the cabin. His bed.
My pulse picks up speed, but I struggle to keep my expression neutral.
I’ve gotten good at that over the years—hiding what I’m really thinking behind a mask of calm. It served me well at society events when someone asked too many questions about my past, or when a client wants to know why I moved to Denver.
But Stryker sees through everything.
He studies me, reading the microexpressions I can’t quite control. The way my breath catches. The slight widening of my eyes before I school them back to indifference.
“Problem with that arrangement?” His voice carries that edge of humor and implacability that makes my stomach flip.
“No.” The lie is bitter and necessary. I give him a polite smile. He has to sleep sometime, and I can move to the couch. “Just…clarifying.”
“Good.” He takes an intentional step closer, and I breathe him in again—spice and danger and powerful masculinity that makes my skin tingle. “Because trying to run in the middle of the night would be a mistake, Allie. A big one.”
The threat should terrify me. Instead, heat pools low in my belly, and I hate myself for the reaction.
I turn away, focusing on the kitchen. “I should get dinner started.”
“Sounds good.” But he doesn’t move, and I can feel his gaze burning into my back as I open cupboards, taking inventory.
Even without the stop we made at the grocery store, there are enough supplies here for basic meals—canned goods, pasta, some spices. In the freezer, I find packages of ground beef.
“Because it’s so late, how about pasta and sauce tonight?” I pull out a box of penne, grateful for something mundane to focus on. “With that bread we bought. We can make the stew tomorrow.”
“Sounds practical. Wine?”
When I turn, he’s already moving, grabbing a red from the small refrigerator.
Maybe it will help take the edge off. “Please.”
While he opens the bottle with economical motions, I fill a pot with water, then busy myself with opening the jar of marinara.
The cork comes free with a soft pop.
He fills one glass, and the liquid catches the overhead light. “None for you?”
“I’m on duty.”
A harsh reminder of my situation and the fact he sees me as an assignment.
When he hands me the stem, our fingers brush.
The unexpected contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, and for a heartbeat, we’re frozen. His thumb traces across my knuckle—just once—before he steps back.
Shaking, needing something to do with my hands, I take a small, fortifying sip while he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.
The wine is good—better than I expected from a safe house stash. It warms me from the inside, loosening some of the tension I’ve been carrying since this morning. Since he kissed me. Since everything changed.
Desperately wanting to get out of my own head, I search for a safe topic of conversation. “How many safe houses does Hawkeye have?”
“Classified.”
“Is everything classified with you?”
Stryker grins. “Most things.” He leans against the counter, close enough that I’m aware of his every breath. “Part of the job.”
I glance at him sideways. “What’s not classified?”
“My coffee preference, as you already know. Black, no sugar.” His almost smile appears again, the one that makes my pulse skip. “What about you? What’s not classified in Allie’s life?”
The question hits too close to home. Everything about me is classified, from my real name to why I’m really running. But I can give him something small, something that doesn’t matter. “I hate mushrooms,” I say, dumping pasta into the now-boiling water. “Can’t stand the texture.”
“Noted.” He adds the sauce to a pan, the smell of oregano and basil filling the small kitchen. “What else?”
“I read romance novels when I can’t sleep. Love cats and dogs. I haven’t been on a real vacation in twenty years.” The last one slips out before I can stop it, too honest, too revealing.
He pauses stirring the sauce. “Seriously?”
“Work keeps me busy.” Another lie. The truth is, even after I stopped moving around with my dad, I haven’t felt safe enough to relax. Then he was killed. And I became a target.
“That’s a shame.” Styker’s voice is softer now, and when I look at him, there’s a tenderness in his steel-gray eyes.
I force myself to look away.
A lethal, threatening Stryker, I know what to do with. One who is human and sympathetic? That’s far, far more dangerous.
“Everyone deserves to get away. To relax.”
“Says the man who probably hasn’t taken a vacation in years.”
“Touché.” He lifts his bottle of water in a mock toast. “To workaholics with trust issues.”
I shouldn’t laugh, but I do. The sound surprises me—light and genuine in a way I haven’t been in so long. “That’s us.”
We work in comfortable silence after that, moving around each other in the small kitchen. When I reach for plates, he’s there to hand them down from the high shelf. When he needs the salt, I pass it without being asked. It’s…easy. Natural in a way that should scare me but doesn’t.
The confined space forces us to navigate around each other, and each accidental brush of his arm against mine, each time his hand steadies me when I reach for something, builds the tension between us.
I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking.
The way his gaze follows the movement of my hands, lingers on my mouth when I taste the sauce.
I’m hyperaware of everything about him. The way he rolls up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms marked with faded scars. The concentration on his face as he slices bread. The quiet hum he makes when he tastes the wine.
“Tell me about the scars,” I say before I can stop myself, nodding toward his forearms.
He goes still, and I immediately regret the question. But then he looks down at his arms, at the thin white lines that crisscross his skin.
“Occupational hazards.” His voice is carefully neutral. “You learn to live with them.”
“They hurt, don’t they? At the time.”
“Yeah.” He meets my eyes. “Some things leave much deeper marks. And the pain of those never fades.”
In the moment, I see flashes of us being kindred spirits.
I want to ask questions, understand this man who’s turned my world upside down. But I don’t have the right. Not when I’m lying to him about everything that matters.
Besides, I don’t dare risk knowing more about him.
Having no emotional attachments makes leaving much easier.
The timer for the pasta chimes, saving us both from the heavy moment. I drain it while he finishes the sauce, and soon we’re sitting at the small wooden table with steaming plates between us.
The food is simple but good. Better than good, actually. There’s something about cooking together, sharing this domestic moment, that makes everything taste better.
“This is nice,” he says after a few bites.
“The food?”
“The company.” His eyes find mine across the table. “When’s the last time you had dinner with someone? Really had dinner, not just grabbed something quick.”
The question catches me off guard. It’s been a couple of years, at least.
My life hasn’t allowed me to have friendships. As a kid, I was bounced from country to country, school to school.
I’ve never even had a real job. Never had the chance to form meaningful friendships.
For a while, Dad and I settled in Brooklyn, back when I was still Lyra.
I met a couple of men at coffee shops, even dated a little.
But then things became hot after yet another of his jobs.
“Allie?”
Shaking my head, I look at him. “Too long.”
Something shifts in his expression. Not pity, exactly, but understanding. Like he recognizes the loneliness I’ve been carrying.
“Same for me.” His admission is quiet and honest.
We finish eating, and the wine has relaxed me in a way I can’t afford to be, but I can’t bring myself to care. For this moment, I’m not running. I’m not hiding. I’m just a woman having dinner with a man who makes her feel things she didn’t know she could feel.
“There’s a fire pit outside,” he says when we’ve cleared the dishes. “We could sit out there for a bit. I think I saw marshmallows in the pantry. We could make s’mores.”
The idea sounds impossibly normal. Impossibly appealing.
“If you want.”
I do want. Him. Time together.
Things I shouldn’t—don’t dare—want.
Things that threaten to tear down the walls I’ve spent a lifetime building.
“What will it be, Allie?”