Page 39 of Sinful
"So, you always lure strange women into alleys?" I ask.
"Only the dangerous ones."
"Smart man."
"Nobody's ever accused me of being smart." He pushes off the wall, takes a step closer. "Especially not when it comes to women who look like trouble."
"Iamtrouble."
"I know." Another step. "That's the problem."
He's close now. Too close.
I should back away, put distance between us, remember that my father is probably dying and I'm here to confess to murder and I can't afford distractions.
But I don't move.
Can't move.
Because the way he's looking at me—like I'm a puzzle he wants to solve with his hands—makes my breath catch.
"What's your name?" he asks, voice dropping lower.
"Does it matter?"
"Probably should."
"Hell," I tell him. The name I race under. The name that's more me than Helle ever was. "Yours?"
"Bravos."
Yep. The Shotgun Saints Nomad. The man here to negotiate with the Raiders of Valhalla.
I should care about that.
But I don't.
He takes another step, and suddenly I'm backed against the wall.
Not aggressively. Just—deliberately. Claiming space. Giving me time to object, to push him away, to walk back inside.
I don't.
We're inches apart now.
Close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes. Can smell leather and gasoline and something darker underneath.
Close enough that I can see when those dead eyes spark—really spark—coming alive in a way that makes my stomach flip.
"You're trouble," he says again. Not a question. A statement.
"You have no idea."
His hand comes up, stops just short of touching my face. Hovering there, giving me one last chance to end this before it starts.
"Tell me to walk away," he says quietly.
I should.
