Page 101 of Sinner's Salvation

He’s smart, I give him that. We have similar strategies. I have a perfect view of him, but before I can shoot him in the leg, he whips to the side and starts shooting in my direction. I laugh while darting away. I have to get behind him for a better shot.

“You’re good.” He praises me, which skyrockets my confidence. But my focus is on where his voice came from. I need to reveal his location.

Think, Violet. Think. Shots echo somewhere in the distance.

We have to win.

I sprint away as Cameron takes aim at me. I hiss when the bullet grazes my arm, but I keep running.

“Oops. Sorry, love.”

I’ll show him sorry—the big AA.

“You should give up. I have a better position, and you’re surrounded.”

“I know that,” I mumble.

“I thought you didn’t know what a gun looks like in real life.”

“What can I say? I am a quick learner.”

“Yes. That you are.”

The innuendo does something to me. He’s so good at playing mind games.

It’s now or never.

I shoot in the opposite direction, and it’s all I need—those few seconds to slip behind a steel counter and let him come closer. When he’s in front of me, I take a long breath, steadying myself. I hit his gun out of his hand with mine. The look in his eyes is worth everything—it’s surprise mixed with awe. His eyes travel from my face to my outstretched hand, holding the gun tightly. It’s clear he’s thinking of a way to overpower me.

I tsk. “I wouldn’t do that.”

I see the struggle in his gaze. I dig the barrel of the gun straight into his chest.

“I think you should give up, love.” I mock him, and his jaw tics.

“You’re very good.”

“Ah, was that a compliment?”

I have him. One second I’m pointing my gun at him, the next his hand grabs my wrist. In a flurry of movement, he turns it in. The gun drops, but he catches it quickly. Securing my gun and tucking it into the back of his pants so fast I have no time to react. He wraps his arms around me, holding me, my back pressed to his chest. What the heck happened?

I struggle in his arms and attempt to kick him, but his grip tightens.

“Stop struggling.”

His mouth is on my ear and goose bumps travel down my skin at that sensual, low voice.

“Then you would win.”

“I have already won. You celebrated a bit too early.”

“I had you. That was unfair.”

“Unfair? What if this was a real situation? Do you think the gunmen would be fair? They won’t.”

“Will it come to that?” I ask, feeling an acute sense of safety in his arms.

“Not as long as I breathe.”

---