Page 24 of Ravens
“Please.”
He eyes me suspiciously before turning back to the cutting board, and I watch his bare back as the muscles tense and shift while he cuts things and pulls out pans. Everything goes intothe pan, and he whisks some eggs and dumps them in too. A few minutes later, he’s setting a steaming plate down in front of me.
“Thanks.”
“Woman of few words today,” he says flatly as he leans against the counter, holding up his own plate while he picks at it with a fork. “Feeling okay?”
“Fine.” I shrug. “No worse, anyway.”
“Good. I have to meet some colleagues today, and you are coming along.”
“Colleagues?” I say doubtfully. “A flock of pigeons then?”
“Pigeons?” His brow pinches as he sips his coffee.
“Mm.” I sip my own. “If I’m a dove, thenyouare a pigeon. Scavenger. Dirtied.”
“I thought you said you weren’t a dove.”
“I said you have no clue what I am,” I correct and push my plate back after just a few bites.
He looks at the plate and then pushes it back at me and leans across the counter. “I thought we learned not to be a bitchyesterday.”
Ignoring the silent command to eat, I get up and take my coffee with me to the bedroom. My clothing from yesterday is clean and folded on a chair. Rubbing the back of my neck, I steal a glance toward the kitchen and unfold the jeans and slide back into them.
I don’t like the care and concern he’s showing me. Helping me bathe, cooking for me, carrying me to bed . . . washing mydamn clothes? The effort he’s making to earn my trust or get me to drop my guard is suspicious as hell.
I may not like that I’m attracted to someone I can’t trust, but sex is sex. Sex feels good, and therefore I understand it. It’s primitive, not always rooted in logic. But I don’t like the emotional manipulation he’s doing.
The bra proves difficult when my shoulder stops me from reaching behind my back, and I growl in frustration as I slide the straps back down and determine I’ll have to do it backward.
“I’ve got it.” His hands stop the straps from sliding.
I didn’t hear him come out of the kitchen. He hooks his fingers under the straps, and warm breath flutters my hair as he guides them over my shoulders and fastens the band across my back.
“Why are we meeting up with these people?” I ask to distract myself from his closeness.
“They’re giving me a hand with something,” he says, still standing behind me.
“I shouldn’t be there. I shouldn’t see anyone’s face,” I whisper.
What if I already know one of them? Even if I don’t, once I see their faces, hear their voices . . . they go into the vault, and I get on the hamster wheel. I don’t want them in the vault. I don’t want to know anyone he knows because if anyone finds out about me, I’ll become an international fucking crisis, and the Agency will be the least of my concerns.
“I don’t trust you, so you don’t leave my sight.” He kisses the bruise on my shoulder.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.”
“You can talk to me, Theresa. I might be the only one youcantalk to.”
My eyes fall to his lips, and I shake my head again faintly. “Where are we going?”
“Camping.”
“Okay.” I carefully pull the shirt on and hide my grimace. “Why?”
