Page 37 of Wilde and Deadly

She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong in a space like this, in a life like his. Her chaos had no place in this order.

Another large, very old framed world map decorated the brick wall over the low leather couch. She’d always wanted to ask him about his fascination with vintage maps because he also had one in his bedroom. But every other time she’d been in his apartment, they were too busy doing more interesting things with their mouths to talk.

And she sure as hell wasn’t about to wake him up now to ask.

Except—he wasn’t in the second bedroom upstairs.

He was on the couch.

Asleep.

Christ.

One arm was draped over his eyes, his broad chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. The thin blanket barely covered his lower half, leaving way too much of him exposed.

The three intricate swirls of ink along his ribs caught her attention—a tattoo she’d always wanted to ask him about but never had. It seemed out of character for him, for a man who never made unnecessary statements, never sought attention.

But it wasn’t just the ink that had her breath hitching.

It was all of him.

The harsh edges of his muscular frame softened in sleep, golden-brown hair a tousled mess, as if he’d spent hours dragging his fingers through it. Stubble shadowed his sharp jaw, dusting his skin in rough gold, making him look less like the dangerously in-control leader she knew and more like?—

A man she wanted to curl into.

A pang of longing hit her so hard she nearly staggered. She locked her knees, forcing herself not to move toward him.

Because that’s what she wanted. What she always wanted.

To slip under that blanket, press herself against all that heat and strength, let his arm curl around her, solid and steady, unshakable as the man himself.

To breathe him in and let the world disappear.

This was exactly why she needed to leave.

She dragged in a shaky breath, tearing her gaze away, forcing herself to focus. Backpack. Clothes. Out.

She hesitated at the bottom of the steps. The front door was right there, across the foyer. Freedom.

But she couldn’t go out there in nothing but his T-shirt.

She peeked over the banister toward the back of the apartment. His kitchen was all dark wood and industrial steel, striking an impossible balance between harshly masculine and warmly inviting.

And right there, on the kitchen island?—

Her backpack.

Her clothes, her weapons, her emergency cash. Everything she needed.

She just had to make it across the room without waking Davey.

Rowan took a deep breath and started moving, each step careful, measured. The hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she whipped her head toward the couch. Davey stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, but he didn’t wake.

She let out the breath she’d been holding in a slow, controlled exhale and continued forward. She was halfway to the kitchen when a low woof behind her stopped her in her tracks.

Luka.

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