Page 37 of Scorpion

We’ve both had time to lick our wounds, but I’m still raw. I’ll just bring him down with me. Plus, what if he decides he doesn’t want me anymore? What if I wake up tomorrow without a job? I’m certain he won’t do those two things, but still, there are so many compounding things that could make all of this blow up in our faces.

I need to put my foot down and tell him that we shouldn’t be doing this.

But the best I can do is grunt in response. I’m a selfish, reckless woman. I don’t want it to stop. I’ve missed feeling a body against mine. Missed feeling like there are two people on this earth and not just me.

I’ve missed him.

Mathijs leans in closer so his breath fans against my cheek, unfurling warmth throughout my body. My blood vibrates with anticipation, and for a second, I worry he can sense it radiating from me in waves. I don’t need to look at him to see his mischievous smile. He’s living for this.

“Try again,” he whispers.

A shiver rolls down my spine. His voice is an octave deeper than usual, and every cell in my body sings from the sultry timbre. “Mathijs…”

“Yes, Lieverd?”

God. I don’t know? Stop touching me? Keep touching me? I can’t decide. This is wrong. Fucked up at a degree that I’m not sure I can accept. I’d be lying if I said I never saw this coming. He’s been flirting with me since the very beginning, and not once has he acted anything but professional to every woman he’s encountered.

Every single sign led here.

To him touching me.

To his lips inches away from mine.

We’ll never be able to go back from whatever he’s planning on doing. Nothing about this feels like an innocent tease, something to get a reaction out of me. It’s not for thrills or out of boredom.

He wants whatever there is in the space between us. He’s dying for what we were before I left. And if I’m being honest with myself, so am I. God, I want everything he’s offering, and I’m selfish for it.

Rationally, I know I’ll never be the person I was back then. I’ll never wake up with a bounce in my step. I won’t sit around and laugh with friends like I used to. There’s no version of reality where either of us could ever be the teenagers who felt like we had our whole lives ahead of us.

But is it so wrong to want all of that? The taste of familiarity. To spend a couple minutes pretending like everything’s okay. Like there is no war. There is no death. Just us, the open fields, and the taste of freedom. Us. I want us to happen again.

I want late nights under the stars, spontaneous adventures, and stupid jokes that have me snorting a laugh while Mathijs is rolling on the floor in tears. I want him.

Not as a means of distraction or a mindless pastime to make me feel something more than menial emotions. I want Mathijs now, the same way I wanted him before everyone around me died. I still think about him at night before I fall asleep. Still count down the moments until I can see him. Before working for him, I saw Mathijs in the faces of every man I went on hopeless dates with.

Every time I met someone who could have been my potential life partner, I asked myself one question: Would I risk it all for them?

The answer was always a resounding no.

But when I was fourteen, I was willing to risk my parents’ wrath for Mathijs. I was eighteen and ready to face potential abandonment for him. Maybe I could have blamed those behaviors on my naivety, but I remember asking myself the same question a few years ago when I thought about him, and my answer was still yes. Just like I would have for Gaya and TJ. Now, I’m risking my life for him every day. I risk prison time. I risk death. I risk losing my sanity from a single trigger event.

Still, I’m here.

I take a deep breath and aim. It’s harder to figure out the actual temperature when I feel like I’ve been set on fire. Mathijs’s fingers dip beneath my clothes to span the width of my back. I close my eyes and relish in the feel of skin on skin. How long has it been since human touch hasn’t hurt?

I pull the trigger. I don’t think either of us knows whether I made it anywhere near the target, but I’ve stopped caring. All I know is how his hands feel on me, and how the simple touch makes me close my eyes like I might be able to permanently etch this moment into my memories.

“Close,” Mathijs mutters against my ear.

I bite the inside of my lip and attempt to line up the next shot—putting more effort in it this time. His ministrations make my concentration dwindle into dust. Once he dips the edges of his fingers into the waistband of my tights, I pull the trigger. I don’t give a shit whether I’ve hit the human dummy or a real one.

Mathijs’s chest vibrates against my shoulder as his hand curves around my waist, skating the line of my underwear as he goes. I squeeze my thighs to alleviate intensifying ache between my legs. I know I need to push him away, but I can’t bring myself to because feeling wanted is the most addicting drug I’ve ever tasted.

I’ve learned how to hide in plain sight and not move a muscle while bullets fly my way. I’ve been trained not to speak if tortured. What I never thought I’d need to learn is how to stop myself from squirming.

“You just need to focus,” he muses as his other hand snakes closer to my side until I can sense him a hair away from hitting the side of my breasts.

“You know what you’re doing,” I rasp, not letting myself look away from the scope.

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