Page 46 of Tag
“You think this is just about you? Every move you make out here affects my ability to keep you alive. And I can’t do that if you keep—”
“—what? If I keep secrets?” I shot back, finally meeting his stare. “You’ve got more ghosts in your past than I can count, Tag, but you don’t see me demanding to exhume them.”
His eyes flashed, the muscle in his cheek twitching. “Difference is, my ghosts aren’t trying to kill you.”
We sat there, breathing hard, staring at each other like we could will the other to break first.
It wasn’t anger anymore. Not really.
It was heat.
Tight, coiled, and ready to burn.
He moved first—closing the gap, one hand cupping the side of my neck, the other braced against the seat. His kiss wasn’t tentative. It was rough, demanding, like he was claiming ground before I could push him out of it again.
I should’ve pulled back.
I didn’t.
My hands fisted in his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no space left, until I could taste the adrenaline and desert dust on his mouth.
When we broke for air, his forehead rested against mine, his voice low and raw. “You’re in this with me, Aponi. All the way. No more walls.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse still pounding. “Then stop giving me reasons to keep them.”
The moment held—intense, unsteady—before Kaylie shifted in the back seat, reminding us we were still in the middle of the desert with a sniper somewhere out there.
Tag pulled back, eyes still locked on mine. “We finish this conversation when she’s safe.”
And God help me, I wanted to.
36
Tag
By the time the first streaks of dawn touched the horizon, the truck was coated in a film of dust thick enough to write in. Kaylie was asleep again, curled under the jacket in the back. Aponi hadn’t said a word since we’d kissed. Not that I blamed her. That wasn’t the kind of thing you walked off.
The contact’s place came into view as the light sharpened—a squat adobe structure, sun-faded and half-swallowed by desert. Old wind turbines stood like crooked sentinels behind it, their blades creaking in the morning breeze.
It should’ve been quiet.
It wasn’t.
A slow, rhythmic tapping echoed faintly from inside. Not hammering. Not wind. Too deliberate.
I cut the engine fifty yards out. “Stay here,” I told Aponi.
She didn’t even blink. “Not happening.”
I shot her a look but didn’t waste time arguing. Faron pulled in behind us, covering the rear while I moved up the path, rifle raised. Aponi stayed close, gun at the ready.
The front door hung ajar. No signs of forced entry. No signs of life, either.
Inside, the smell hit first.
Blood.
Coppery and heavy.
