Chapter 8
EIGHT
ROWAN
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. Not because I’m used to getting what I want. I’m not. My career is built on being told no and then asking better questions until the no turns into a confession. But this is different.
Sin didn’t turn me down with disdain. He didn’t mock me. He didn’t treat me like I was silly for wanting something human in the middle of something terrifying. He turned me down like a man who wanted to say yes. Which, honestly, is worse.
Now we’re doing drills, and my nervous system is having a full-blown identity crisis.
Sin clears the living room space with the calm precision of someone rearranging furniture for a party, except the party is called “Survive an Attack” and the guests are adrenaline and bad outcomes. He points to the front door. “You hear a knock. What do you do?”
“I open it and say, ‘Hello, potential murderer,’” I reply.
His eyes narrow. “Try again.”
I fold my arms. “I ask who it is.”
“From where?”
“Behind the door.”
His gaze sharpens. “No. From cover. You don’t stand in front of a door you don’t control.” He moves to the wall, and shows me the angle. “Here. You can see the entry without exposing yourself.”
I step into position, feeling ridiculous and oddly alive. My pulse is already ticking up, my body responding like this is a game even though it isn’t.
Sin stands close, just behind my shoulder. He’s not touching me, but still, I feel him. I feel the heat from his body. The faint scent of coffee and something clean and masculine that makes my brain short-circuit. He speaks near my ear. “Again. Knock. What do you do?”
I swallow. “I move to cover. I ask who it is. I don’t open the door.”
“Good.” His voice is low. “And if you hear glass break in the back?”
“Run?” I guess.
“No.” He steps around me, quick and controlled. “You move. You go to the safe room.”
“The safe room is where?”
He points down the hall. “Second door left. Closet inside. Panel opens. You get in. You lock it and you wait for me.”
My chest tightens on the word wait. I hate waiting. I hate being powerless. I hate the idea that if something happens, my job is to hide while he bleeds for me. I nod anyway, because I’m not stupid.
Sin picks up a stopwatch from the counter. Of course he has a stopwatch. He probably has spreadsheets for breathing. “Ready?” he asks.
“For what?” I ask.
“For stress,” he replies. He starts the timer. “Knock,” he says sharply.
My body jolts. I move to cover, doing it exactly the way he showed me, because I want to prove I can learn. I can handle this. I can be useful. “Who is it?” I call out, voice steady.
Sin’s voice changes, deeper, harsher. “Open the door, Rowan.”
My stomach flips. It’s an act. I know it’s an act. Still, my skin prickles. “No,” I say.
“Open the door.”
I tighten my stance. “No.”
Sin steps closer. His presence shifts behind me. The air thickens. “He says he’s from the power company.”
I scoff. “In the middle of the woods?”
“People lie,” Sin says.
I glance back at him, and he’s watching me like he’s pleased and pissed off at the same time. That look does something to me. Something hot and dangerous. My mouth opens before my brain can help. “You’re enjoying this.”
“I’m evaluating you.”
“Same thing,” I mutter.
He moves in front of me now, close enough that I can see the faint shadow on his jaw, the line of his mouth. His gaze drops briefly, then lifts.
My pulse stutters. I try to focus on the drill. I do. I really do. But all I can think about is how it would feel if he stopped using words and started using his mouth.
Which is a terrible thought for a woman in danger. Also, I’ve been in danger for weeks, and my body is done being polite about what it wants.
Sin resets the scenario.
“Back window breaks,” he says.
I jump, then move fast. Hallway. Second door left. Closet. Panel. I yank it open, slip inside, and slam it shut. Darkness. My breathing sounds too loud.
“Time,” Sin calls through the door.
I push it open and step out, heart racing.
Sin checks his stopwatch. “Better. Again.”
“Do we get snacks for good performance?” I ask, trying to keep it light.
His gaze pins me. “You want a reward.”
I swallow. Because yes, actually. But I don’t want a snack. I don’t want some stupid gold star.
I want him.
The words sit in my chest with a heavy ache. I nod once anyway, because I refuse to look flustered. “I want to know I’m doing it right.”
Sin steps closer. “You are.” His voice is calm, but his eyes are not. His eyes look like a man holding the line on something that wants to break through.
I can tell. It’s in the way his jaw tightens when I get too close. The way his gaze tracks my mouth and then snaps away like it’s dangerous to look too long. I should back off. I don’t.
Because I’m lonely.
Because I’m scared.
Because I haven’t been touched in almost a year and now there’s this man in front of me who makes my whole body feel awake.
And because I know he wants me too. He can pretend he doesn’t.
He can call it discipline. He can hide behind rules.
But I see it. I see it in his hands when they flex at his sides like they want to grab me.
I see it in the way he breathes when I move.
I see it in the hard stillness he uses to hold himself back.
“Next drill,” he says, and his voice is a little rough.
“What is it?” I ask.
“Evasion,” he replies. “If someone gets their hands on you, you break contact and move.”
My throat goes dry. “We’re doing… that.”
“Yes.”
“Here.”
“Now.”
The room suddenly feels smaller.
Sin steps behind me. “You don’t panic. You don’t fight the wrong way. You strike soft targets, and then you move.”
He reaches for my wrist. My body reacts like it’s been waiting for his touch. Heat flares under my skin. My breath catches. His fingers close around my wrist, firm but not painful. My brain shouts This is training. My body says I do not care.
“Break it,” he says.
I twist the way he showed me earlier, turning my wrist toward his thumb. I step in, pivot, and wrench free.
Sin’s brows lift a fraction. “Good.”
I spin to face him, breath coming fast.
He’s close.
Too close.
His chest rises and falls steadily, but his eyes are sharp, locked on mine. There’s something in them now that wasn’t there five minutes ago. Or maybe it’s always there and I’m just finally brave enough to see it.
Sin steps forward again. “Again.”
“Okay,” I manage.
He grabs my wrist again, this time higher, closer to my forearm.
My pulse jumps. I break it again, faster.
His hand catches my other wrist, and now he’s holding both, bringing me in just enough that I can feel the heat of him. “This is what it feels like,” he says quietly. “Panic makes you weak. You stay clear.”
I swallow, staring up at him.
His face is close enough that I can see the faint scar near his cheekbone, and the slight crease between his brows. His mouth is set in a hard line that I know he’s forcing.
“Sin,” I whisper.
His eyes drop to my mouth.
My whole body aches.
“Break it,” he says, but his voice doesn’t sound like a command anymore. It sounds like a plea.
I should. I should do the drill. Instead, I lift my chin and say the truth that’s been burning in me since breakfast. “You want me.”
Sin goes still. The air between us crackles. His jaw clenches. “Rowan.”
“I’m not asking you to break your rules,” I whisper. “I’m asking you to stop pretending you don’t feel this.”
His grip tightens slightly, then loosens, like he’s catching himself. Like he’s fighting.
I breathe in, and he smells like coffee and clean skin and restraint. “I’m disappointed,” I admit, voice shaking just a little. “Not because you said no. Because you said no like it hurt.”
Sin’s eyes flicker, something raw flashing through them before the control slams back into place. “This isn’t a game,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “That’s why it’s real.”
His throat moves. For a second, he looks like he might step back. Then he doesn’t. Instead, he lowers his voice. “You’re running on pure adrenaline.”
“Maybe,” I whisper. “But I’ve been wanting to kiss you since yesterday.”
Sin’s breath catches. The smallest sign. The crack.
I lean in slowly, giving him time to stop me. Giving him an exit.
He doesn’t take it. His hands slide from my wrists to my waist, firm and careful like he’s still trying to be responsible even as he’s failing at it.
I barely have time to register the shift before his mouth is on mine.
It’s not gentle. It’s controlled at first, like he’s testing the edge, like he’s trying to keep it contained.
Then my hands rise to his chest, and I feel the hard muscle under his shirt, the steady heat of him, and I kiss him back with everything I’ve been holding in.
His restraint snaps a fraction. His mouth moves with mine, slow and deep, and my whole body lights up like a match struck in the dark. His hands tighten at my waist, pulling me closer.
I make a soft sound against his mouth, and he groans like it costs him something. He kisses me again, harder this time, and my knees go weak. I press closer, needing more, needing him, and he responds like he’s been starving.
Then he stops.
Not because he wants to.
Because he has to.
Sin pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead nearly touching mine. His eyes are dark, intense, and his hands are still on my waist like letting go would be a mistake.
His voice is rough. “Rowan.”
I’m breathing hard, mouth swollen, heart hammering like I just ran a mile.
“Yes,” I whisper, like I’m asking for more and also afraid of what more would mean.
Sin’s gaze drags over my face, and the hunger there is unmistakable. He swallows, jaw tight. “I can’t stop myself from wanting you.”
“I guess the question is,” I smile, “why are you trying to?”