He was holding the Other at bay, but just barely. And he was spending a hell of a lot of time and energy burning off the edges.
“Whatever it takes,” he grated, slapping home another pair of clips and hitting the reset button at his right elbow. “Whatever it fucking takes.”
“Words to live by,” a voice said from behind him, filtering through his ear protectors. Her voice.
His whole body went tight in an instant. He would’ve given anything to scoop her up, carry her into the gun shed, lock the door, and lose himself with her, inside her. Because that wasn’t an option, he slammed down every inner shield he possessed, set the autopistols aside, stripped off his protective glasses and earplugs, and turned toward her, moving slowly, trying not to let her see how the sight of her got his body jamming.
She stood a few feet away, at the edge of the rubber-padded cement that formed the main firing platform, with its waist-high reload counter and protective baffles. She was wearing crisp new jeans that hugged her long legs and a clingy green shirt that cinched beneath her breasts. Her hair was a mass of dark curls surrounding her face, and she was wearing a touch of mascara to accent her vivid brown eyes, a slick of lip gloss that caught his eye and made him think of her long, slow kisses and the murmur of pleasure she’d made at the back of her throat when he’d touched her, when they’d touched each other.
He’d crossed half the distance between them before he was aware of moving, was reaching for her before he could make himself stop. The spark of silver that flashed through him, though, stopped him dead in his tracks, and had his voice going low and harsh. “You shouldn’t be here.”
But she shook her head, holding up her hands as though to ward him off. “I came to thank you.”
It took him a moment; he was too caught up in the edges of battle rage at first to remember. Then he did, and he fell back a step. “Oh. That.” He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I had Jox get her a fake ID, and we moved her to another apartment within the retirement complex, just in case Iago goes looking deeper in an effort to find you.” They couldn’t forget that the Xibalban wanted Sasha. And once Michael had met Ada Moscowitz and seen the older woman’s relief when she learned Sasha was okay, he’d known he wouldn’t be able to walk away without making things as right as he could. He’d wanted the widow to have some closure, wanted Sasha to have a piece of her old life within Skywatch.
And he should’ve had Strike give her the boxes and pretend it’d been his idea, damn it. But he’d wanted . . . hell, he didn’t know what he wanted. Or rather, he knew exactly what he wanted, and didn’t dare take it.
Her lips parted on a soft sigh. “Then I owe you even more than I thought.”
“You don’t owe me a godsdamned thing,” he said flatly. When that didn’t seem to be enough for the edgy heat that was kicking through his system, he added, “Don’t make me into some sort of hero, sweetheart. That was payback.”
He wanted her to be pissed at him. Instead, she rolled her eyes. “Try again, cowboy. One good deed I might’ve bought as guilt. Four or five good deeds—and those are the ones I know about—make me wonder what the hell game you’re playing.”
“Shit. I should’ve known they’d blab. Frigging Yen tas.” Trying really hard to be an asshole, he shrugged. “Fine. You’re welcome. Go away.” He lifted his protective glasses. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
Her eyes went past him to the pop-up targets—this week it was a group of tough-looking men in urban gang gear, packing Uzis. Most of them were headless. “Looks like you’re doing just fine.”
“What part of ‘go away, I don’t want your gratitude’ are you not getting?”
If he’d figured that was rude enough to make her leave, he’d been way off. She looked back at him, the glitter in her gorgeous brown eyes going from irritation to speculation as she moved to the apron of the firing platform, closing the distance between them until he could’ve reached out and touched her, tracing the curve of her cheek, shaping the swell of her hips and breasts.
“Don’t,” he gritted from between clenched teeth. Don’t push me. Don’t tempt me.
The air between them steamed with the memories of the two of them straining together, his big body pinning her to the wall, helpless against the burn of pleasure. Her scent filled his lungs, bringing him the taste of her, the feel of her. They weren’t touching, weren’t kissing, but his whole body lit as though they were. He held still, told himself to take a big step back. Couldn’t make himself move.
“What’s wrong, Michael?” she asked, lifting her chin in the defiant challenge that got inside him, turned him on. “You don’t want me, remember?”
“I never,” he grated, voice rough and low, “said I didn’t want you.” The words were out before he could call them back. “I ache for you.” Whoa. He really hadn’t meant to say that.
Her expression went sharp. “Then . . . what, you’re playing games? The thrill of the chase isn’t enough; you need to manipulate the people around you, too?”
Sweat prickled along his spine as the heat demanded that he touch her, take her. Yet he couldn’t, damn it. “You don’t understand.”
“No shit, Sherlock. How about you try explaining it to me?” She lifted a hand and splayed it on his chest. “Your heart’s pounding.”
“I’m pissed.”
“You’re turned on,” she countered, “and so am I.” A flush rose high on her cheeks at the admission.
“So . . . you want to tell me why, rather than giving us a chance, you’re up here beating the shit out of a bunch of targets—and from the looks of you, yourself too—trying to get yourself too damn tired to feel the burn?”
“I . . .” He wanted to. By the gods, he did. If she understood that much about what he was doing, maybe she could understand the rest, at least as much as he did. Hell, maybe she’d even have some ideas. But he couldn’t find the words for what was happening inside him, the shame and the anger, and the daily battle to hold on to himself. He’d tried to tell her, but hadn’t been able to. He’d tried to drive her away, but hadn’t been able to do that, either, because he’d betrayed his own good intentions through his friends. Had that been his subconscious sabotaging his conscious intent? Maybe. Probably.
Gods, he wanted her.
He wanted her beneath him, surrounding him. Arching up against him as she came. But more than the physical, he wanted to sit with her, laugh with her, be with her. But above all, he wanted to keep her safe. And to do that, he had to keep his hands off her.
Or did he? He was nearly dead on his feet, and the target practice had burned off the leading edge of the anger. If there was ever a time he’d be able to keep himself level around her, it was now. And if the logic was self-serving, maybe even coming from the corruption brought by the silver magic, in that moment, with Sasha close enough to touch, he was having trouble caring. He’d run himself ragged each day until he dropped into bed too exhausted to do anything but sleep. And in sleeping, he’d dreamed of murder and magic.
He needed something different to take with him tonight. He needed her.
Control, he reminded himself. Drawing a deep breath, he counted his heartbeats, feeling them slow beneath her palm. Then he leaned into her touch and dropped his head, zeroing in on her glossy lips.
Her darkened eyelashes fluttered to her cheeks as she tipped her head back in tacit agreement. He wanted to crush her to him, wanted to take her deep in an instant, but held himself in check. Hold it together.