Page 46 of Brick's Retribution

Not just physically, though she's stunning enough to stop traffic.

The urge to claim her, to mark her as mine, rises with such intensity it frightens me.

This isn't just attraction anymore.

This is something much more dangerous.

I force myself to step back, breaking the spell between us.

The loss of contact feels like tearing away part of myself.

"We should get some rest," I say, my voice rough. "It’ll be a long day tomorrow."

Hurt flashes in her eyes before she masks it with icy composure. "Of course. The assignment."

"Imani—"

"It's fine," she says, turning away to busy herself with checking her weapon. "You're right. We need to stay focused."

But it's not fine, and we both know it.

The tension between us has shifted into something intense and unresolved, crackling in the air whenever we look at each other.

I settle into the chair by the window, positioning myself to watch the street while she takes the bed.

Silence stretches between us, filled with all the things we're not saying.

Hours pass. I can tell from her breathing that she's not sleeping any more than I am.

Every small sound she makes—the rustle of sheets, a quiet sigh—sends awareness shooting through me.

Around three in the morning, she cries out in her sleep.

Not loud, but sharp with terror.

I'm on my feet and beside the bed before I consciously decide to move.

"Imani," I say softly, not wanting to startle her awake too suddenly. "Hey, you're okay."

She jerks awake, eyes wide with fear before focusing on me.

For a moment, she looks young and vulnerable, nothing like the strong cartel princess she usually presents to the world.

"Nightmare?" I ask gently.

She nods, pushing herself up to sit against the headboard. "The same one I've had since I was five. My mother and brother... their blood on the floor..."

Without thinking, I sit on the edge of the bed and pull her into my arms.

She resists for a moment, then melts against me, her face buried in my chest.

"I can still hear the gunshots," she whispers. "Still smell the gunpowder and blood. Sometimes I wake up thinking I'm still that little girl, hiding behind the couch while men kill my family."

I hold her tighter, one hand stroking her hair. "You're safe now. I've got you."

"Do you?" she asks, lifting her head to look at me. "Have me, I mean?"

The question hangs between us, loaded with meaning.

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