Chapter 21 The Kiss That Feels Like a Trap
The Kiss That Feels Like a Trap
The storefront smelled like stale coffee and wet cardboard, the kind of rot that seeped into clothing and refused to leave.
Roman stood in the narrow gap between a broken display case and a wall of tarped shelves, gun angled down, Ava’s slim folder tucked against his ribs where he could feel its weight through his shirt. Her fury filled the room like smoke.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she snapped, voice raw from too many swallowed words. She’d kicked at a loose plank and it clattered across the concrete, echoing too loud in the empty space. “He died and you’re still acting like we’re the ones who misstepped.”
Roman didn’t answer at first. He watched the way her hands shook - just barely, at her sides, as if she didn’t want anyone to notice the tremor. He’d seen her in courtrooms and back rooms, calm as a scalpel, fearless on cross-examination. This was different. This was grief dressed as rage.
Ava turned toward the back wall, where a crooked mirror hung behind a sheet of plastic, the only thing in the room that reflected more than emptiness. “That contact - he was supposed to get us the chain of custody. He was supposed to - ” Her throat worked. “He was supposed to buy us time.”
Roman finally shifted, stepping closer until his shadow swallowed part of the floor between them. Heat from his body warmed the cold air near her, and he hated that he could use it. He hated that she let him.
“He didn’t buy us time,” Roman said, quiet and deliberate. “He bought someone else access to your timing. Whoever arranged it wanted you emotional.”
Ava’s head snapped toward him. The anger in her eyes was sharp enough to cut, but there was something underneath it - something that made her look younger than she was. “You think I don’t know that?”
Roman’s jaw tightened. “I think you’re trying to outrun it.”
The taunt hung between them for a beat too long. Outside, somewhere beyond the boarded windows, a distant engine growled and then faded, like the city was breathing through its teeth.
Ava’s gaze dropped to his gun. “Are you going to keep standing there like a guard dog?” she asked. “Or are you going to do what you promised - hold the line?”
Roman’s promise sat heavy in his chest, a vow he’d made while she was sedated and restrained, while her eyes had still tracked every movement like she was mapping escape routes. He’d told her he would keep her safe long enough to win her case. He’d meant it.
He lifted his hand, slow enough that she could stop him. His thumb brushed the edge of her sleeve, feeling fabric damp from the humidity in the storefront. Ava inhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the contact died.
“You want proof?” he murmured.
Her lips parted, then closed again. “I want you to stop talking like you’re already leaving.”
Roman’s throat went tight. He didn’t like the word leaving. It made him think of the last time he’d watched a plan collapse - of the way he’d failed to see a trap before it snapped shut.
“I’m not leaving,” he said.
But he didn’t say what he feared: that the traitor could make him watch Ava in pieces even if he did everything right. That romance - this closeness, this softness he didn’t allow himself - was a lever someone else could pull.
Ava’s anger didn’t vanish. It redirected, turning inward, aiming for her own control.
She stepped into him, crowding his space until he could feel her heat through his shirt and the faint medicinal bite still clinging to her skin from the forced transfer.
She raised her chin, like she could intimidate him into believing her.
“Then kiss me,” she said.
The words struck like a command delivered in a courtroom. Roman went still, every disciplined instinct screaming that this was a mistake - too vulnerable, too public to the air itself. Yet her eyes held his with an insistence that didn’t ask permission so much as demand honesty.
Roman’s fingers tightened at her waist, not possessive, not panicked - anchoring. He leaned down, mouth brushing hers first, testing. Ava made a sound that was half frustration, half relief, and her hands slid up his chest to grip the fabric there as if she needed something solid.
The kiss deepened. Not frantic. Not starving. It was the kind of hunger that came from being denied comfort for too long and then realizing the denial was weaponized. Ava tasted like heat and stubbornness, like she’d been furious long enough that the fury had become a path.
Roman felt it in his ribs - how quickly his restraint could slip when she touched him like she believed in him. How easily her openness could break his guard.
When he pulled back, their foreheads stayed close. Ava’s breathing was uneven, her eyes bright with a dangerous calm.
“You’re shaking,” Roman said.
“I’m not,” she lied.
Roman’s mouth curved without humor. “Ava.”
Her eyes flicked to his gun again, then to the folder pressed between his ribs. Subtext moved like a live wire: she wanted the evidence, she wanted him close, and she wanted to pretend the trap wasn’t already inside their skin.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she said softly, the rage in her voice thinning into something intimate enough to hurt. “That if I’m emotional, I’ll make a mistake.”
Roman didn’t deny it. He couldn’t. “Yes.”
Ava’s thumb brushed the edge of his jaw, and the gesture was so gentle it made his discipline feel like a costume.
“Then don’t let me make the mistake,” she whispered.
“Let me be angry in your arms. Let me - ” Her voice faltered, and that single crack was the most dangerous thing she’d ever offered.
“Let me feel it without being punished for it.”
Roman swallowed. He wanted to say he’d carry it, that he’d shield her from the cost. Instead, the truth came out rough.
“I can’t protect you from everything,” he said.
Ava’s breath caught like she’d been slapped. “You think I don’t know that?”
“No,” he said, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I think you know it better than I do. And I think you keep walking into the dark anyway.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was loaded - waiting for something to break it.
A soft chime sounded from the front of the storefront, faint through the cracked glass. Roman’s head snapped toward the sound. His hand moved, covering Ava’s folder with his palm so fast it almost looked protective rather than possessive.
Ava’s eyes widened. “That wasn’t - ”
Roman didn’t let her finish. He slid the gun up into a ready position, muzzle angled toward the front, shoulders squared. He listened. No footsteps. No radio chatter. Just the chime again, then a click like a latch being tested.
Ava shifted closer despite the danger, her body choosing him over distance. That was the problem. The traitor didn’t need to force her. They could lure her with the exact thing she wanted - control, proximity, certainty.
Roman’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “Stay behind me.”
Ava’s laugh was quiet and bitter. “You can’t order me around like I’m your soldier.”
Roman’s eyes flashed. “I’m not ordering you. I’m keeping you alive.”
That should’ve soothed her. Instead, Ava’s expression tightened, because it was the old Roman in his command voice - cold, protective, withholding. It reminded her of rules she didn’t get to change.
She stepped into the space anyway. “Then keep me alive,” she said. “And don’t lie to me.”
Roman’s mouth went hard. He wanted to tell her everything he knew about the traitor’s playbook. He wanted to tell her that romance-adjacent timing was a method - press the right button, make the target feel chosen, and then use the softness as leverage.
But he didn’t have time to explain. The storefront door handle turned with a careful, practiced pressure.
Roman’s gaze cut to the tarped shelves. “Courier team,” he said to Ava, meaning it as a warning, not a plan. “They’re here.”
Ava’s face sharpened. “No. They’re too - ”
The door burst inward.
Not with brute force. With a clean, quiet efficiency that made Roman’s stomach drop. Three figures in dark coats moved like they’d trained in the same room. No hesitation, no shouting. One of them carried a slim device that emitted a faint blue light, scanning the space in quick sweeps.
Roman fired once - one round, controlled, meant to stop movement, not kill. The shot cracked through the air, loud as thunder in the abandoned shop. The closest figure flinched back, but didn’t fall. He spun, raising the scanning device like a baton.
Ava moved faster than Roman expected. She lunged toward the display case, grabbing something - her own tool, a compact legal kit she’d kept on her like a lucky charm. She didn’t aim to fight. She aimed to reach the folder’s stash spot, to grab her copy.
Roman caught her wrist. “Don’t.”
Her eyes burned. “You’re not the only one who knows what’s at stake.”
Roman didn’t argue. He shoved her behind a shelf loaded with warped glass bottles. The bottles clinked, a brittle sound that made Roman think of breaking bones. He turned his body to block her view, gun steady.
The figures advanced.
One of them spoke, voice muffled by a mask but carrying crisp authority. “Roman. You can stop. She’s safe if you comply.”
Roman’s pulse spiked. They’d used his name like a leash. Like they’d planned for him to hear it.
Ava’s muffled voice cut through the chaos. “That’s not - ”
Roman raised his free hand slightly, palm out, in a command that wasn’t directed at the intruders. It was for Ava. For her to stay still.
Then the masked speaker added, almost conversational. “It’s a shame. You two were so close.”
Close.
The word landed in Roman like a punch. Whoever was pulling strings understood exactly how to wound him. They weren’t just attacking his body. They were trying to poison his mind.