Page 4 of Deadly Oath

An abrupt, hot jolt of anger ripples through me at the thought of any other man taking the coldly gorgeous woman in front of me outanywhere, let alone on an actual date. Irritation at her refusal to call me by my name follows it, adding to the prickling running across my skin like ants.

“I am new here,” I agree, keeping that anger out of my tone with some effort. “And what if I am asking you out on a date?” I smirk at her, and I see her eyes narrow.

“Then I’d have to say no,” she says, her voice returning to that chilly calm. “I don’t think I’m really in a place to go out with anyone right now. But thank you,SheriffBrady. I’m sure you were just looking out for me, by asking.”

There’s no room for argument in the way she says it, so I drop it for now, standing up smoothly as I carry my mug to the sink. I pass by her as I do, and I get a whiff of her scent—sweet vanilla sugar with a hint of spice to it. My cock twitches again, that tingling arousal prickling up my spine, and I force myself to keep walking past her. I have the urge to turn and pin her against the counter, put my hand on those perfectly curved hips, and show her exactly how little she’s actually managed to put me off. How aroused I am by her, despite her coolness towards me.

But I ignore it. I was once a man of great self-control, and even if I’ve felt that control fraying as of late, I’m not that far gone yet.

Even when it comes to her.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I tell her smoothly, picking up my sheriff’s hat from the table and plopping it back atop my head. “Let me know if you need anything, Sabrina.”

“I will. But I have a friend coming by soon, so?—”

“Don’t worry, I’m getting out of your hair.” I smile at her. “I won’t keep you any longer.”

I stride back towards the front door, taking note of the house as I go. It’s all simply furnished in a way that implies it came this way. I doubt Sabrina has had any hand in the decorating. The living room is wood-paneled, with a soft floral-print couch and what looks like a handmade quilt over the back, a slightly out-of-date television hanging on one wall. There are no personal touches that I can see that fit the person I met today—it seems like Sabrina is just existing here, without trying to make it her own. I imagine if I went into her bedroom, it would be much the same.

That prickle of desire runs over my skin again at the thought of her bedroom, but I push it away, opening the door. It squeaks on the hinges, and I glance back at Sabrina once before stepping out. She’s half-visible through the kitchen doorway, still leaning back against the counter, clutching her mug as if it’s a shield. I see a part of her face, thin-lipped and slightly pale, and I file that image away to consider later before I slip outside.

Outside, it’s a chilly November day, and I tug on my jacket against the cold, heading out to where my truck is parked. Another concession to this place’s small-town sensibilities. There’s a police cruiser I could drive, but I like that even less than the truck I purchased shortly after moving here. I think, with brief yearning, of the car I left behind—and then unlock the door, hopping up into the warm, mint-scented interior.

I have every intention of coming back to check on Sabrina later on tonight.

3

SABRINA

Iwatch Kian go, that unsettled feeling lingering with me.I can ask Marie if he was telling the truth,I remind myself, gulping down the remainder of my coffee and setting my mug in the sink. He said he met her, so if he was lying, that’s uncovered easily enough.

And his story makes sense. I remember Sheriff Wayne when he came by, right after I moved in. He looked every inch and more the sixty-five years that he claimed to be, and I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that he retired—at least if it came from someone other than the handsome, supposedly new sheriff who showed up on my front step.

And why don’t you believe him?I ask myself, as I rinse out my mug and his, irritated at the sight of his leftover coffee that’s now wasted. If he didn’t like it, I think as I scrub the rim, he could have just said so. But of course, that wouldn’t have been in keeping with the small-town manners I’m confronted with constantly.

There was something about him that unsettled me. But as I finish washing the mugs—a little too vigorously—I can’t help but wonder if it’s less because there’s something actually off about Sheriff Kian Brady, and more because of theotherhalf of my reaction to him.

He was gorgeous. Unfairly, inappropriately gorgeous. Chiseledjaw, dark blue eyes, and that thick, coppery reddish-brown hair, the kind of hair that women would die to run their hands through as that bit of stubble on his jaw scraped over their skin. Muscles that strained at the sleeves of his uniform shirt. I even thought I saw a glimpse of tattoos, under the edge of the long sleeves.

I felt something unfamiliar—and unwanted—stir the moment I saw him standing there. A wash of heat that I can only imagine was desire, although I’ve never really felt it before. The men paraded in front of me in my old life were—cold. Polished. Brutal, but in a way that they’d carefully honed to hide it behind a facade of respectability. Young or old, there was always something stiff about them, something that defied any consideration of desire on my part. And there was always the way they looked at me—like I was something to be appraised. Like a piece of fine art. Purchased, then hung up in their mansion for their viewing pleasure, to show off to their associates.

What I felt from Kian—Sheriff Brady, I remind myself sternly, as I dry off my hands—was something entirely different. Something rawer, more dangerous. It set off something inside of me, some primal instinct, and I don’t know how I feel about it. It makes me want to ward him off—but at the same time, I’m curious.

Or, I think as I grab my purse,you have too much time on your hands and an overactive imagination.If Kian Bradyisthe new sheriff, as he claims, then there’s nothing dangerous about him. He is, as he said, someone I can call on if I need something. Nothing more than that.

I hear the sound of the door opening—undoubtedly Marie—and a second later, her cheery voice ringing through my otherwise silent house.

“Sabrina! Are you ready to go?”

“Coming!” I call out, hooking my purse strap over my shoulder and heading for the living room.Maybe I should get a cat,I think wryly. Maybe that would do something about the oppressive silence—and my lack of companionship.

Or maybe it would be just one more thing for me to leave behind, if I have to run again.

Marie is standing in the small entryway, her brown leather purseslung over one shoulder. She’s very pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way, with blonde hair that has a bit of a curl to it, cut into a kid-friendly bob just above her shoulders. Her eyes are a soft hazel, and she has what was probably a stunning figure before three children, that has now softened into a comfortable curviness. She’s wearing a pair of faded jeans and a blue-and-black plaid shirt with the elbows rolled up, along with sneakers, and everything about her radiates a sort of friendly coziness that would make just about anyone feel at home around her.

Even I, who feel decidedly out of place and not at home everywhere and around everyone here, get a hint of that feeling when I’m with her.

I follow Marie out to where her sensible silver minivan is parked. It smells faintly of Cheetos and milk, and I wrinkle my nose as I slide into the passenger’s side. Marie hops in next to me, starting the car as she glances at me with an apologetic smile.

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