Page 7 of Crown of Smoke

That seems odd to me. Who goes around seeking a fight? "Right." I shift on the bed, wincing as the movement pulls at my injury. "And bringing me to your apartment?"

His jaw tightens. "You passed out."

“You could have called 9-1-1 or taken me to a hospital.”

His lips quirk up almost as if he’s amused. “You didn’t need a doctor. You fainted. Another reason you shouldn’t go hunting for trouble. There’s a lot of blood in the Keans’ world. If you faint at the sight of it, you’ll be passed out more often than you’re awake.”

I take offense at that. “I don’t pass out at the sight of blood.”

He arches a brow.

I blow out a breath. “Okay, maybemyblood. Other people, I don’t.” Sure, I might get a little queasy, but I don’t faint.

“Sure, okay. Do you want some water or whiskey?”

Both, actually. “Water would be nice.”

“Feel like getting up?” He holds out his hand.

I hesitate but then take his hand, letting him help me stand. His hand is callused but warm. Once I’m standing, he releases my hand and leads me out of his bedroom.

His apartment is small. I can see just about every area from the living room. He moves to the tiny kitchenette to get me a glass of water. I watch him, my mind cataloging details. The fluid grace of a fighter. The way his eyes keep darting to the windows, the door, then back to me, like he's mapping escape routes.

Everything about him screams danger. And yet…

There's something magnetic about him, something that draws me in, even at the bar before everything went sideways. The way he'd warned me off with that hint of possession in his voice. How he'd appeared in that alley like some dark guardian angel.

But that's the problem, isn't it? He'd been watching me. Following me. The kind of behavior that should send me running, not sitting here admiring how his muscles flex as he fills my glass with water.

"You're staring," he says, those blue eyes piercing.

Heat floods my cheeks. "I'm trying to figure you out."

"Don't." The word comes out rough, almost like a growl.

"Can't help it. It's what I do." I sit on his couch, sinking into a cushion deeper than expected. "Most guys who play hero don't stick around to patch up the damsel."

"I'm not most guys." He hands me the glass of water. "And you're hardly a damsel."

The air between us feels charged. My heart hammers, but I’m not sure if it’s fear or attraction. Maybe both.

"No," I agree, meeting his gaze. "I'm the fool who chases stories into dark alleys."

His lips quirk, but the amusement doesn't reach his eyes. "At least you admit it."

I shouldn't find his disapproval attractive, shouldn't feel this pull toward someone who's basically a stranger. But there's something about him that makes me want to dig deeper, to uncover all his secrets.

Just like any good story.

"So, were you following me? At the bar, I mean. Before the alley."

Flynn’s shoulders tense. "What makes you think that?"

"You approached me with a warning, then just happened to be there when things went south? I'm a journalist. We notice patterns." I sip the water, relishing the cool liquid quenching my dry mouth.

He moves to the window, glancing out like he’s expecting trouble. "You weren't supposed to be part of this."

"Part of what?"

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