Page 10 of No Words
“So what now?” I ask, my voice steadier after the water.
Cole moves to the window, tucking himself back into his pants as he peers out into the darkness. “Now we survive. We wait. We plan our next move.” He glances back at me, his expression more composed but his eyes still dark with residual heat. “And we establish some ground rules for... this.”
“This,” I repeat, gesturing between us. “Whatever this is.”
“A complication.” His expression softens. “But maybe a necessary one.”
Before I can respond, a crackling noise emanates from the duffel bag on the table. Cole crosses the room in three strides, extracting a small radio.
“Bennett.” His voice shifts, becoming harder, more professional.
A burst of static from the radio interrupts us, a catch a snippet of the message before he turns the volume down. “Update. Fourth witness found. Borsellini’s work confirmed.”
“Understood. Radio silence unless critical. Out.”
He places the radio down and meets my eyes. “Alessio just eliminated another witness in your RICO case. Johnathon Anderson.”
“The accountant? I interviewed him three weeks ago.” I sink back onto the couch. “He asked whether I could guarantee his safety.”
“And you told him the system would protect him.” Cole’s voice holds no accusation, just grim certainty.
“But it didn’t.” My heart sinks with guilt.
Cole sits beside me, close enough that I feel his warmth. “That’s why we’re here. Off the grid.”
Darkness wraps the cabin so completely, it feels like we’ve fallen off the edge of the world.
“Get some rest,” he says, standing. “I’ll take first watch.”
“Watch?” I echo. “You think they could find us here?”
His silence is answer enough.
As he moves to check the windows and doors, I watch him, his graceful movements, the vigilant sweep of his eyes and the tension in his shoulders. This man has upended his life to protect mine. Has sacrificed his safety, perhaps his future.
The most terrifying part isn’t that I trust him. It’s that I want him to ruin me just as much as I want him to save me.
4
COLE
I check the security feeds while coffee brews. Empty screens. No movement in the trees surrounding us, a small mercy. I roll my shoulders, feeling the tension from constant vigilance. Three hours of sleep is better than none.
Molly still sleeps in the bedroom, curled into herself like something precious and wounded. That combination can make men dangerous. Some want to save it, while some want to break it. I still haven’t decided which one I am.
I stand in the doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed over my chest as I study her sleeping form. I shouldn’t watch her like this, but I do, noting every detail. The rhythm of her breathing, the slight furrow between her brows that suggests her dreams aren’t entirely peaceful, the way her dark hair spills across the pillow in waves I’m tempted to touch.
My eyes trace the outline of her body beneath the thin sheet, remembering how it felt beneath my hands just hours ago. There’s something voracious in my observation, something possessive I should suppress but don’t bother to. Her survival depends on my awareness of every detail, I tell myself. It’s a convenient justification for this quiet invasion of privacy.
I pour coffee into two mugs, the routine oddly domestic given our circumstances. My burner phone vibrates with an encrypted message from my contact. Borsellini’s men questioned a gas station attendant thirty miles south. They’re hunting, methodical and patient. We have time, but not much.
When I return to the bedroom, Molly is stirring, her petite frame almost lost in the rumpled bedding. Her dark hair fans over the pillow in wild tangles, framing a face with delicate features that make her look deceptively fragile. She stretches, exposing the curve of her pale neck where my fingers left slight bruises last night, my large hand capable of circling her throat completely. The bruises on her throat send heat through me. Mine.
Last night, I’d worried I might break her, my towering frame dwarfing her slight build, but she’d taken everything I gave her. The contrast between us only feeds the darkest parts of my desire.
“Morning,” I say, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “We start training in fifteen minutes.”
Her eyes snap fully open, suddenly alert. “Training?”
