Page 29 of His Hold

“Believe it or not. This business isn’t exactly built for you to ask questions. You are meant to work with the information you know, and keep your mouth shut. I didn’t care, nor did I know.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“So, you think I’m the one who sent her on whatever job went bad?”

“I think you were the last one to see her alive. And if you weren’t, you know who was.”

I narrow my eyes. “You have a death wish, don’t you?”

“No.” Her voice drops. “I have a sister. And she’s worth dying for.”

I lean back, watching her. She’s all bravado, held together by fury and desperation. I almost respect it.

“You’re not leaving this cabin until I decide what to do with you,” I say.

“And if I don’t feel like staying?”

“You don’t have a choice.”

She looks away, her eyes shifting to the loose bandages wrapped around her ankle. “You tried to bandage my leg?”

“Can’t question a corpse.”

The fire crackles between us, the only sound apart from her shallow breathing.

I pull a chair closer to her, leaning in.

“Take your boot off.”

She gives me a look like I just asked her to strip naked. “Why?”

“Because if your ankle swells anymore, you’re not walking on it out of here.”

“Maybe that’s the point. If I die, then at least you’ll feel guilty about it.”

I chuckle. “You think I feel guilty? About anything?”

She doesn’t answer. Just looks at me with those eyes I try my best not look at. I crouch down in front of her, grab her leg, and start unlacing her boot.

“Hey!” She jerks her leg back, but I tighten my grip.

“Hold still.”

Her breath hitches when I slide her boot off, and I can see the mess of her ankle already turning purple. This looks like she hurt it before she got it twisted. Like she’s been limping on it, pushing herself like she’s got something to prove.

I grab an ointment from one of the shelves, apply it, and wrap her ankle tight, ignoring her protests.

Her lips press into a straight line, and for a moment, I see something shift in her eyes. Fascination.

“You missed on purpose.” Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

“What?”

“You shot at me. But you missed. On purpose.”

My lips curve. “Maybe I just have bad aim.”

“No. You don’t.”

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