Page 35 of Brick's Retribution

One bed. Two of us.

The memory of that kiss between us comes rushing back and I know I can’t be in the same bed as her.

I’ll be too damn tempted to do more.

I grab a spare pillow and move toward the small armchair in the corner.

"Don't be ridiculous," Imani says, setting her bag on the dresser. "You're injured, and that chair would cripple a healthy man. We're both adults. We can share the bed."

She's right, of course. It’s the rational, practical solution.

Still, I hesitate, knowing the tension between the two of us won’t just come to a halt.

"I don't bite, Brick," she adds, a hint of a smile softening her features. "Unless specifically requested."

Her joke breaks the tension, pulling a low chuckle from me, even though I should know better. "Fair enough. But if I bleed on your side, don't say I didn't warn you."

We take turns in the bathroom, the routine of preparing for bed almost surreal given the circumstances.

When Imani emerges in a tank top and sleep shorts, her hair loose around her shoulders, I have to remind myself of our situation—we’re being hunted, we’re in danger, how I need to be professional.

Not the time to notice how the soft cotton clings to her curves or how different she looks with her guard down, softer somehow.

I take my turn in the bathroom, washing away the desert dust as best I can with a quick shower, careful to keep the bandage dry.

When I return to the room wearing just sweatpants, Imani is sitting on the edge of the bed, checking her weapon one final time before placing it on the nightstand.

She glances up, her eyes briefly tracing the tattoos across my chest and shoulders before returning to my face. "Which side do you prefer?"

"I'll take the one closest to the door," I say, the decision automatic.

Placing myself between her and potential threats is second nature now.

She nods, sliding under the covers on the far side of the bed.

I follow, wincing slightly as I settle onto my uninjured side, facing the door.

The bed isn't large, but we manage to maintain a couple of inches of space between us.

I reach over and switch off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness broken only by thin strips of neon light filtering through the gaps in the curtains.

Sleep doesn't come easily.

My body is exhausted, but my mind is racing, processing the shit that happened today, planning our next move, thinking about all the threats coming our way.

From her breathing, I can tell Imani is awake too, her thoughts likely as turbulent as my own.

"Brick?" she says softly into the darkness. "Thank you. For taking that bullet. For getting us this far."

Her thanks catches me off guard. "Just doing my job."

"Is that all it is? A job?"

The question hangs in the air between us.

Is it just a job?

It started that way—a run, an assignment, a responsibility to the club.

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