Page 110 of Ruthless Regret

She blinks, and refocuses on me. "Yeah." A slight smile tilts her lips up. It looks forced. “I’m going to make a drink. Do you want one?”

I follow her to the kitchen, and prop one shoulder against the wall, watching her as she moves around my kitchen. The domesticity of the scene hits me. She knows where everything is, making drinks like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I haven’t spent years hating her. Like I didn’t force her to marry me out of revenge.

It should bother me. It should remind me of all the reasons I brought her here in the first place, of the three-step plan I made when I got out of prison.

Instead, I find myself fascinated by the curve of her neck as she reaches for mugs; the way her shirt rides up slightly when she stretches; the easy grace of her movements.

The way she fits into spaces I thought I’d sealed away forever.

Focus. We have work to do. A killer to catch.

But when she turns, holding out a mug of coffee to me, something inside unlocks. The control I’ve been clinging to allmorning crumbles. The walls I’ve built to keep her out crack and fall away.

I take the mug she’s offering me, and place it on the table.

“Put your drink down.”

She complies, slowly, a slightly confused look in her eyes, and I’m on her the second she lets it go. My mouth claims hers with a fierceness that borders on desperation. Her lips are soft, yielding. My hands slide up her back, and I pull her closer.

She tastes like tea and hope … and the sound she makes, that small, needy little gasp, drives me over the edge.

My fingers tangle in her hair, and I tug her head back slightly, and take a step forward, backing her against the counter. Her body presses into mine, and her hands fist the front of my shirt. My blood roars in my ears. I want her,allof her, and there’s no space left for hesitation or doubt.

There’s only this. Onlyus.

She kisses me back, arms sliding up my chest to wind around my neck. Heat burns between us, a fire that consumes everything in its path, leaving nothing but need and desire. My hand drops, finding the hem of her shirt, and I slide my fingers beneath it, and up until I can palm her breast. My thumb sweeps over her nipple, and my mouth leaves hers to press biting kisses along her jaw and down her throat.

A floorboard creaks behind me.

Years of survival instinct screams danger before my conscious mind catches up. I’m already moving, spinning, one hand reaching back to keep Ashley behind me, when a dark figure lunges from the doorway, and fire burns across my side.

The bastard has a knife. I recognize how it feels. It’s not the first time I’ve been stabbed.

He twists the blade, tearing through muscle. Pain explodes across my ribs, but adrenaline dulls it to background noise, and I ignore it and focus on the figure in front of me.

Stiffening my hand, I drive it forward, catching him in the throat, but the impact isn’t as hard as I’d like and he just stumbles backward. I follow through with a punch that should have knocked him out cold. But he rolls with it, moving with a fighter's grace. His counter-strike catches me in the kidney. Then the knife comes at me again, a silver arc aimed at my throat.

I barely get my arm up in time. The blade slices deep into my forearm. Blood sprays across the counter. Ashley screams.

The intruder moves like a fucking ninja, every movement calculated and precise. His mask reveals nothing but cold, dark eyes. We slam into the refrigerator, rattling dishes in the cabinets. His knee drives up into my groin. Pain rockets through my body, doubling me over.

The knife comes down again. This time I manage to catch his wrist and stop its descent into my head, but he's stronger than I expected, and the blade inches closer to my face. The wound on my arm is making my grip weaker.

I'm losing the fight and we both know it.

I slam my forehead into his nose. Something cracks. He grunts—the first sound he's made—but doesn't let up. The knife keeps coming. Each second brings it closer to my throat.

Behind him, Ashley swings something. Just before it hits, he moves, and the pan catches him across the shoulder instead of his head. It still makes him stagger, though, and I use the distraction to drive my knee up into his solar plexus.

The knife clatters to the floor.

Thank fucking god.

Butthatvictory is short-lived. His fist connects with my temple like a sledgehammer, and before I can recover from that, he grabs my head and slams it into the counter.

Once.

Twice.

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