Page 38 of Wilde and Deadly

He’d followed her downstairs and now stood between her and the front door, ears pricked forward, his intelligent eyes locked on her with quiet intensity.

“Shh, Luka,” she whispered, lifting a hand. “It’s okay. I’m just?—”

“Going somewhere?” Davey’s sleep-roughened voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Fuck.

When he sat up, the blanket pooled around his hips, leaving far too much golden skin and hard muscle on display. He dragged his hands over his face and yawned, stretching, the shift of his abs pulling her gaze like a magnet.

Unfair. The man had no right to look that good while exhausted.

“I was just… getting some water,” she lied. Weakly. Pathetically. He was going to see right through it.

His eyes narrowed. “Try again.”

Her first instinct was to fight back, to push him away before he got too close. She lifted her chin. “So what if I was sneaking out?”

Davey exhaled through his nose, but she couldn’t tell if he was out of frustration or amusement. Probably both.

“You really think walking out of here half-dressed, with a stitched-up hole in your side, is a good idea?” His voice was rough with sleep, but his eyes were sharp now, cutting straight through her. “That smart survival instinct of yours take the day off?”

She bristled. Damn him. He knew exactly how to needle her, how to get under her skin in ways no one else ever could. “I’m not being reckless. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

His expression hardened. “Keepmesafe? Ro,youare the one who showed up at my door bleeding and unconscious.”

She flinched.

Unconscious.

She hated that word. Hated the helplessness of it.

Davey pushed himself up from the couch, wincing slightly as he put weight on his bad leg.

Her eyes betrayed her before she could stop them, tracking the hard planes of his stomach down to where his sweatpants sat dangerously low on his hips. The cut of muscle, the defined V?—

She forced her gaze back to his face before she did something stupid. Like drool.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” he said, his voice rough with something she didn’t want to name. Something she wasn’t ready for. “Christ, Ro, you were half-dead two nights ago. You really think I’ll just let you disappear again?”

Two days. She’d lost two whole fucking days.

Her chest went tight.

“I don’t need your permission,” she snapped. “I’m not your responsibility, Davey.”

He took a step closer. Too close.

Her body locked up, her instincts screaming move, but she couldn’t. Not when he was looking at her like that—like she was something breakable, something worth keeping.

“You made it my responsibility when you came to me.” He took another step toward her, crowding her. “You trusted me enough to come here when you were hurt and vulnerable.”

Vulnerable.

She hated that word even more than unconscious.

“I made a mistake,” she forced out, hating the way her voice wavered, hating that he heard it too.

He didn’t respond, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. He was grinding his teeth.

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