Page 94 of Impossible

“Only knives?” I tease.

“Mmhm, knives and Indie.” He opens the door to a room and slips us inside.

“Me?”

He doesn’t grace that with words, instead cocking his head to the left, so my chin falls right in the gap between his jaw and shoulder. I’m blasted by woodsmoke. My face goes warm and my toes go cold and somewhere in between is on fire. Rather than my now-reliable hairpin trigger shame, however, I find myself giggling at the brazenness of it—I’m so used to trying to disguise myself and my scent, but it’s like Risk speaks to me with his. He emanateswant, and I bite my laugh off as I feel my body reciprocate. As Iletmyself feel my body reciprocate.

“Mmmm,” Risk hums. Then he sets me down, and my focus is drawn away from where our bodies touch to the room around us.

My jaw drops.

It’s dominated by a pegboard wall in bright cherry-red wood, every inch covered with weapons.

My eyes scan the vast array—an entire corner dedicated to knives, ranging from tiny switchblades to hunting knives to a literal machete. Next is guns: pistols, a shotgun, automatic rifles, old-school revolvers and a massive sniper rifle gleaming with dark oil. The rest of the collection looks like it belongs in a museum—a two-handed broadsword, a mace, abattle axe.

“Where did you getthat?“ I ask. I want to get closer, but I’m crutch-less. Risk notices, and without my needing to ask he grasps me gently around the waist and lifts, gliding me across the room to stand closer.

“Rescue mission.”

“Rescue mission?” I reach out and graze my finger along the wooden handle—it’s polished to a shine, not a speck of dust visible.

“Omega got kidnapped. We went after her.”

“Is that common?” I turn to him. “Kidnappings?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Too many alphas. We won’t let anybody get you though.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I murmur. I don’t know if it’s Risk’s thrumming energy or my own wanting or the scents of Midas Pack soaking the air around me, but the threat of kidnapping feels distant and false.

Risk is looking at the weapons now, and it’s the first chance I’ve had to admire him in semi-stillness. He looks soyoung, with full lips and apple-like cheeks. His loving gaze for the weapons makes me smile—maybe I should be concerned that he’s so enamored with instruments of death, but something about it just seems right.

“Who built this?” I nod at a tiny gap of uncovered pegboard. “It doesn’t seem like hardware store stuff.”

“Leon.” Risk smiles wistfully. “I helped. Want a knife?”

He takes one from the wall.

“Me? A knife?”

“Yeah. So if I jump you again you can stab me.”

I turn to him sharply. He’s being completely earnest.

“I wouldn’tstabyou, Risk.”

“Why not?”

“Why do you sounddisappointedby that?”

He doesn’t answer, crossing to a chest of drawers and rummaging around inside until he emerges with an olive-green strap of some sort. Then he returns and drops to his knees in front of me. I almost stumble backwards to make space, but he hooks his arm around my waist and holds me still as he places the strap around my right thigh. I realize then what it is, but stay silent as he tightens and adjusts it.

“You’re too small,” he grumbles. “But it’ll do.”

He steps away and takes me in.

I look down at the knife strapped to my thigh. I undo the keeper holding the knife in the sheath and pull it free, admiring the steel. It’s a hunting blade, one edge serrated and the other gleaming sharp, culminating in a wicked tip. The handle is dark wood, small enough to fit comfortably in my palm when I grip it.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper. “But I don’t know how to use it.”

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