Page 55 of One Secret

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What did I liken Cyrus to back at the hotel that night?

Not a lion… but a wolf.

The vision before me is proof. Clear as day.

I stand transfixed as Cyrus hunts me across the rocks. No longer careful, his steps are rapid and sure-footed. An apex predator descending over his territory. To anyone else, the spectacle might be paralyzing: a trained killer with eyes set firmly upon his target... Me.

But adrenaline races, muscles tense, and I hold firm.

The trembling in my belly isn't fear but anticipation. The rushing heat through my limbs isn't flight; it's excitement. And the tingling over my skin, the tremors that send my hair on end and make me itch to my very core, is a desire more powerful than I've ever known. Even with him.

And I thought I'd been teasing only Cyrus? Playing with only his nerves, drawing out only his cravings?

Fool.

As he reaches my plateau, I'm practically shaking. Only a foot away from me and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears. My shades have fallen to the ground somewhere with a forgotten clatter.

I stand strong only until the last second.

As Cyrus rushes me, it's natural to pull away and avoid a dangerous collision so I take an instinctive step back. My foot hits something slick and wet. It shoots out from under me, sending me off-balance.

I've barely started to fall before Cyrus has wrapped his formidable set of arms around me. He takes my weight like it's nothing and I steady myself in his embrace. Trapped in a delicious cage of biceps and sinew, I catch my breath. The tips of my breasts hit his chest and jolts of electricity shoot down through my bones.

'My hero,' I swoon, my breathlessness fitting the part.

To hold onto my fearsome savior, my hands are splayed across Cyrus's bare back, palms pressed against long ridges in his skin.

The man is covered in scars. From nicks and gashes on every limb to two puckered bullet holes: one front and center of his left bicep, the other six inches higher, in the meat of his shoulder.

All of them are familiar. Not simply because I've felt them before—with my fingers, with my tongue—but because I've seen similar wounds on the battlefield, embossed on dozens of men. Violent badges of honor.

The scars across Cyrus's back though… those weren't made by war. I follow the long slashes over his shoulder blades and across his spine. Each is reminiscent of a belt or a strap and all of them are old. Very old.

"I lived with my mother until I was four... my old man came to get me... He was an enforcer. Scariest man alive…"

'Don't ask,' Cyrus suddenly growls, his voice cracking like velcro. I stop my gentle caresses and take a bold grip over his ruined skin.

You're not broken, I want my touch to say. I don't see you as fragile...

'I wouldn't ask,' I promise.

'Because you don't care?' he snarls. His fingers dig sharply into my hips. I keep my expression cool.

'Because it's not my story,' I tell him. 'If you ever want to tell me, you'll do it only when you're ready.'

'You're not going to be there.'

The animosity in that sentence sends a jolt through my heart. Ever since I brought up my leaving on the plane, Cyrus has chewed on the idea without grace. Like the discontinuation of whatever this is between us is repugnant.

Yet, in all the months we've known each other, he's gone out of his way to ensure I know the score: Fantastic sex. Limited time only. Zero longevity.

Mixed signals much, Alesi?

'Then...' I say, leaning in closer and pulling his torso flush against mine...

I sigh into the shape of him. The way the ridges of his muscles mold my skin into their mirror pair... the way I can feel his heartbeat pounding through his diaphragm.

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