4. MYLA
Chapter four
MYLA
By late morning, my hands smelled faintly of gun oil and my shoulder ached from recoil.
Gunner had eventually decided I was unlikely to shoot myself, him, or anything expensive, which I took as progress, although he refused to call it that.
He collected the spent casings from the dirt while I stood beneath the trees with his pistol still warm in my hand, watching the back of his shirt pull across his shoulders every time he bent.
I had been trying not to look at him for the better part of an hour.
I was failing badly.
Maybe it was the isolation. Maybe exhaustion and painkillers had destroyed whatever sense I used to possess. Or maybe the problem was simply that Gunner was the first man in a very long time who made me feel protected without making me feel trapped.
That combination was proving inconvenient.
“You keep staring at me like that, sweetheart, I’m gonna start thinking I missed something.”
I looked away from his ass.
“I was checking the tree line.”
“Course you were.”
His voice held enough amusement to make my face heat.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
The annoying thing was that he said it without arrogance. He didn’t need to grin or crowd me to make his point because the attraction between us had become obvious enough that pretending otherwise was starting to feel ridiculous.
I handed him the pistol.
When his fingers brushed mine, neither of us moved away immediately.
The moment stretched.
Then the pull in my side reminded me that my body had more urgent priorities.
I flinched before I could hide it.
Gunner’s attention dropped instantly.
“House.”
“I’m fine.”
His gaze lifted back to mine.
“You wanna try that one again?”
“I’m sore. There’s a difference.”
“House, Myla.”
I should have argued.
Normally, I would have.
Instead, I followed him up the path, partly because the ache along my ribs was becoming harder to ignore and partly because there was something strangely comforting about hearing him use my name in that tone.
Inside, Gunner took the pistol from me, locked both weapons away and went straight to the freezer.
“What are you doing?”
He wrapped ice in a dish towel. “Sit.”
“You really enjoy ordering people around.”
“I enjoy not having to stitch you back together with fishing line because you’re too stubborn to rest.”
I stared at him.
“You have fishing line?”
“Ray did.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“Ain’t trying to be reassuring, remember?”
His mouth shifted slightly.
I sat on the couch.
He crouched in front of me and held the makeshift ice pack toward my side, but instead of placing it himself, he waited until I took it.
Another choice.
Another tiny thing I probably wasn’t supposed to notice.
I pressed it against my ribs and leaned back carefully.
Gunner remained where he was for a second, forearms resting on his thighs while he looked at the bruising visible above my waistband.
His expression flattened.
I already knew what that meant.
“You’re doing the angry face again.”
“Ain’t got an angry face.”
“You absolutely do.”
He looked up.
“Someone put their hands on you hard enough to leave prints. Excuse me if I’m not cheerful about it.”
The words were blunt enough to knock the teasing out of me.
“I got away.”
“Yeah.”
“That should be the part that matters.”
“It is.”
His jaw tightened anyway.
For a few seconds we sat in silence, and I realized I wasn’t uncomfortable with it anymore.
That might have frightened me more if I had the energy.
Gunner eventually stood and took the chair opposite me, stretching his legs out.
“What happened after the corkscrew?”
I knew what he meant.
The men outside my apartment.
The moment everything changed.
“I drove until I ran out of gas.”
He waited.
I appreciated that he didn’t interrupt.
“I left my phone in a trash can, slept in the car and called in sick the next morning from a pay phone. By the time I worked up enough nerve to go back, my apartment had been searched.”
“You call cops?”
“No.”
His expression didn’t change, but I could see the question.
“My manager had police friends. So did the company owner. I didn’t know who was involved, and after making the mistake of trusting the wrong person once, I wasn’t eager to make it again.”
“That how you ended up running?”
“At first.”
I adjusted the ice against my ribs.
“For a while, nothing happened. I changed jobs, moved across the state and convinced myself I’d overreacted. Then I saw one of the men from that night outside my new apartment.”
Gunner leaned forward slightly.
“How long after?”
“Seven months.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly.”
That was when I understood Black Thorns didn’t forget.
They waited.
Sometimes patience was more frightening than violence.
“I kept moving after that,” I continued. “Nothing dramatic. New jobs, cheap apartments, never putting too much of myself online. I learned what not to do.”
“And eight months ago?”
There it was again.
The question I still wasn’t ready to answer.
I looked toward the window.
Gunner noticed immediately.
“You don’t have to tell me.”
I turned back.
“That easy?”
“No.” He rubbed a thumb along his jaw. “I wanna know. Probably need to eventually. But I’d rather you tell me because you trust me than because I backed you into a corner.”
Something inside my chest tightened.
He kept doing that.
Every time I prepared myself for pressure, he stepped back.
It would have been easier if he acted like the dangerous biker I expected.
Instead, he gave me space, handed me weapons and slept on a couch so I could lock a door between us.
“You know that makes you incredibly confusing?”
“What does?”
“You.”
That faint smile appeared.
“Been called worse.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
I lowered the ice pack.
“Why did you back away earlier?”
The question came out before I could reconsider it.
Gunner’s expression changed.
“When?”
“Outside.”
He knew exactly when.
We had been standing close enough that I could feel his breath on my mouth, and I had been certain he was going to kiss me.
Then he hadn’t.
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips before returning to my eyes.
“Because you got attacked yesterday.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s most of one.”
I waited.
Gunner exhaled and leaned back.
“You’re hurt, you’re scared, you barely know me and right now I’m the guy standing between you and something worse. I ain’t gonna take advantage of that.”
Heat moved low in my stomach.
“What if I wanted you to?”
His eyes sharpened.
The air in the room changed so quickly I almost regretted asking.
Almost.
“Careful, sweetheart.”
“With what?”
“Questions you already know the answer to.”
I swallowed.
“Maybe I don’t.”
He stood.
Slowly.
Every bit of casual humor disappeared as he crossed the room and stopped in front of me.
I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
“You think I don’t want you?”
His voice had dropped lower.
My mouth went dry.
“I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
The word wasn’t harsh.
If anything, it was too quiet.
Gunner lifted one hand, but instead of touching me immediately, he let it hover beside my face.
I understood what he was doing.
Waiting.
Giving me the same choice he kept giving me everywhere else.
I leaned into his palm.
His thumb moved across my cheek.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
I laughed softly because I couldn’t help it. “I have a black eye, stitches and your shirt on.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s your argument?”
“Ain’t an argument. You’re still beautiful.”
The simplicity of it hit harder than anything polished could have.
My chest tightened.
“What are you waiting for, then?”
His eyes moved over my face.
“For you to decide whether this is what you want or whether you just don’t wanna be scared for five minutes.”
The honesty hurt.
Because he was right.
There had been moments since arriving when I wanted to crawl inside whatever safety he offered and never come out.
But this wasn’t that.
I knew the difference.
I reached up, caught the front of his shirt and pulled him closer.
“Kiss me.”
Gunner did.
There was nothing hesitant about it once I made the choice.
His mouth came down on mine, one hand sliding into my hair while the other settled carefully at my waist, nowhere near the bruises. The first kiss was almost controlled, as if he was still giving me room to change my mind.
I didn’t.
I tightened my grip on his shirt and kissed him back harder.
Something rough came from his throat.
That sound did more damage to my self-control than anything else had.
Gunner shifted closer until his knees touched the couch between mine, and the kiss deepened, slow enough that I felt every change in pressure and every small movement of his mouth against mine.
He tasted like bitter coffee.
I had spent all morning complaining about it.
Apparently I liked it better this way.
My hands slid up his chest.
Solid muscle moved beneath my palms, and when my fingers reached the back of his neck, Gunner finally stopped treating the kiss like something fragile.
His hand tightened in my hair.
My pulse jumped.
Heat settled heavy beneath my skin as he angled my head and kissed me deeper, and for the first time in months I forgot about exits, aliases, motel rooms and Rafe Maddox.
There was only Gunner.
His body.
His hand around the back of my neck.
The way he kissed like he did everything else—controlled until there was a reason not to be.
I shifted toward him.
Pain tore through my side.
The reaction was small, barely more than a sharp breath, but Gunner stopped immediately.
His mouth left mine.
“You hurt?”
“I’m fine.”
“Myla.”
I almost laughed.
“I pulled the stitches a little. I’m not dying.”
He stepped back.
The loss of his body heat irritated me more than it should have.
“Don’t.”
His brows drew together.
“Don’t what?”
“Do that thing where you decide what I want for me.”
His face hardened slightly.
“Ain’t doing that.”
“You’re backing away.”
“Because you’re hurt.”
“I’m sore, Gunner, not made of glass.”
He stared at me.
I stood carefully and closed the distance he had created.
“If I want you to stop, I will tell you.”
Something changed in his expression.
Not because I had given him permission.
Because he believed me.
Gunner touched my jaw.
“A man who doesn’t know the difference between a woman wanting him and being too scared to tell him no ain’t much of a man, sweetheart.”
The words hit somewhere deeper than attraction.
I looked at him for several seconds.
Then I kissed him.
This time I was the one who started it.
Gunner’s arms came around me carefully, drawing me against him without putting pressure on my side. The kiss was slower, but somehow more intimate because there was no uncertainty left between us.
When we finally separated, my hands stayed against his chest.
His forehead rested briefly against mine.
“This is a bad idea,” I whispered.
“Probably.”
“You’re supposed to disagree.”
“Ain’t gonna lie to you just because you wanna hear something pretty.”
I smiled.
“Still an asshole.”
“Yeah.”
He kissed my forehead.
“But apparently your asshole for the morning.”
I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought of that wording when the sound of an engine carried faintly through the trees.
Gunner changed instantly.
One second he was standing close enough that I could still feel his mouth on mine.
The next, his hand had left my face and gone to the pistol at his back.
“Bedroom.”
My stomach dropped.
“You expecting anyone?”
“No.”
The engine grew louder.
Gravel shifted somewhere beyond the trees.
Gunner crossed to the window without exposing himself, looking through the narrow gap beside the curtain.
All warmth had disappeared from his expression.
“Gun.”
I grabbed mine from the table.
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know yet.”
He checked the magazine in his own weapon before looking at me.
“Bedroom, sweetheart. Lock the door and stay low until I tell you otherwise.”
I wanted to argue.
Then I heard the vehicle coming closer.
The fear I had managed to forget during his kiss came rushing back.
Gunner saw it.
His expression softened for only a second.
“I’ve got you.”
Three words. Nothing elaborate.
Somehow, I believed them. I backed toward the hallway with the gun held tight in both hands while Gunner moved toward the front door. Outside, the engine slowed.
And stopped.