Page 15 of The Hitman
He huffs softly, sidestepping the sagging sheet corner above him. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”
I try not to think about the mere inches separating us, but the air inside the tent grows thick with awareness.
I have to crane my neck just to hold his stare. “Why do you insist on acting like one?”
“I’m not trying to, you know.”
I purse my lips. “So you’re just naturally a tyrant?”
“Something like that.”
The words send a shiver up my spine that refuses to be ignored.
His eyes—the same shade as sturdy steel—dance across my features. He’s hardly taken them off me since we stepped inside this fort, and I’m not sure how to feel about that.
“You’re staring,” I whisper.
“Am I?” he challenges, too close for comfort.
The back of my neck warms as the heat between us rises. The phantom pull toward him both thrills and alarms me. Neither of us is resisting it, but I’ve been alone for so long, I’m not sure I remember how to do this.
Especially with a man like him.
My attention falls to the tiny white scars sprinkled across his cheeks and lower jaw, then to the two thin lines marking one corner of his mouth.
“These marks…” I lift a hand and tilt his chin so I can see him better. He flinches at my touch, but doesn’t pull away. The thin white scars on his jaw and cheekbones are faint, barely visible until I look more closely.
“You lose a fight with a copier?” I ask.
He hums, relaxing beneath my fingers, daringly dancing across his skin. “My line of work can get messy.”
The way he says it feels like a dare. Almost like he wants me to ask him to explain. But the stain on his collar, the one that’s looking less like a woman’s kiss, has me questioning whether I want to.
“Day trading,” I clarify.
He flattens his hand over mine, holding it against his thinly scruffed cheek. “Dangerous work, indeed.”
My heart thuds like a warning drum in my chest.
I should be angry at how he snapped at Leo, and maybe I am. But beneath the sharp edges and gritted teeth, Jaxon looks like a man barely holding himself together. Like he’s had the kind of day that didn’t just drain him, but hollowed him out.
Standing here, toe to toe, in a kingdom made of blankets, I realize something else. The three of us are all aching for the same thing.
Not distance.
Not control.
Just comfort.
So I let it go. Because someone has to show these two that shutting people out when you’re hurting doesn’t make you strong. It just makes you heart-achingly lonely.
“Thank you,” he whispers against my palm. I’m light-headed when he presses a kiss to the center of it—soft, reverent, like he’s exploring something new and not yet ready to let go. “For helping him when I don’t know how.”
Warmth spreads like wildfire up my arm, and the sensation burrows inside my chest before curling around my heart.
I drop my hand, afraid I’ll unravel if I utter anything more than a quiet, “You’re welcome.”
He moves for the exit with noble grace, and dumbfounded, I watch him go with his breath still etched on my skin.
