And he hadn’t had that in over a year.
Already, he could smell her in his house. Maybe he was just being fanciful. She had a scent he’d imprinted on the first time he’d gotten close enough to smell her. Her skin held a combination of berries, sugar, and sun-kissed rain. He could taste her now—tactile memory.
His heart skipped a beat. He’d never be able to scrub her from his mind.
She’d never been to the cabin. It’d just been completed the year he’d met her, and they’d been balls to the wall the two years since. He’d only been here once himself. His great-aunt kept it up for him.
He smiled when he thought of his tia Rosa. She and his uncle Herman had been Jude’s rock through his teen years. His mother hadn’t had time for a husband, much less a fourteen-year-old son. She hadn’t had time to cook, clean, work. What she had had time for was fame.
Sophia—formerly Dagan, now Ortiz—had only had time for the Mexican soap opera on which she’d been cast by pure chance. She’d been a beautiful woman with a heart colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra, his dad had always said. Of course, that had been when he was falling-down drunk or close to passing out in the shed. Eventually, his father, Carron Dagan, had killed himself, driving straight off the side of one of the mountains outside Jude’s window.
Jude had been left solely with his father’s uncle and aunt. They’d been old when Jude was a teen, but Uncle Herman and Tia Rosa had taken care of him. Uncle Herm had taught Jude how to hunt, fish, and live off the land. Tia Rosa had taught Jude what little he knew about love and loyalty. Oh, and how to cook. She’d taught him that too.
At the thought of food, Jude grimaced. He needed to go back up and check on Ella. He rubbed his chest. She gave him those gray eyes, and it slayed him every time. She was a land mine for Jude, and in the midst of gaining her secrets, he’d have to step carefully.
He walked up the stairs cautiously. She’d escaped rope ties in Russia. He’d taken her clothes and weapons when he’d undressed her, but the woman had proven she was more than capable of handling herself. She hadn’t quite had time to fashion a knife’s edge out of the spoon she’d used to eat her soup, but she was an unknown to him now and he had to be careful.
He came to his room—yeah, he’d given her his room. There were only two bedrooms in the whole house, and it felt right for Jude to have her in his. Her eyes were closed, but he felt her awareness.
“Do you need anything?” he asked, his voice neutral, nonthreatening.
“I’ve got to pee,” she said softly.
Of course, Jude thought. Of course that’s the first thing she’d say to him. He made his way over to the bed, gauging her reaction. She kept her gaze trained on him the entire time, her body tense and ready.
What had happened to her that conditioned her wariness around him? He’d never hurt her. Never would. When he’d told her in Serbia that he’d destroy them both if she made him chase her, he’d only been partially lying. But he’d never hurt her physically. No, Jude was worried about the lengths he’d force their hearts to before one of them broke.
“Bathroom is through that door,” he said, pointing to the other side of the room.
She sat up, rubbing her neck, wincing. He waited for her to move, his gaze focused on her motions. When she didn’t try to get up, he raised his eyes and found her staring at him, some indefinable emotion playing over her bruised features.
The mark on her cheek was growing into a deeper, darker purple and blue. Dresden would pay.
“What is it?” he asked roughly.
“Will you leave and let me handle my business?” she questioned, her tone sharp.
He shook his head.
Her brows lowered, and her gaze went flat. “Seriously, Dagan?”
He was sick of her calling him by his last name. It was time to initiate Project Bring Ella Home. Jude almost laughed. Hell, he’d not even known he was making her a project. She was here physically, sure, but emotionally she was too far from him. It was anathema to his soul that she was so far away from him. “Don’t ever call me Dagan again, Ella. We clear?”
He didn’t move into her space, barely moved anything more than his lips, but his voice conveyed how precarious her situation was at the moment. He was tired of the distance between them. A year. Hell, over a year. Four hundred seventy-three days he could have been loving her, touching her, and she’d left him. Lied to him. Forced him to believe she was dead.
Get a grip, Jude, he told himself.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t do anything more than look away from him, but a flush rose up her chest. She was angry.
And Jude didn’t care. Not at the moment. He had to gain her confidence somehow so she’d spill her secrets, and somewhere in there, he had to earn enough of her heart so that she didn’t leave him when all this came to a head.
Is that what you want? his mind asked.
Hell yes, his heart answered unequivocally.
Jude needed to be truthful with himself. As she sat there, breathing, very much alive, he had no choice but to recognize his heart’s truth. He wasn’t leaving her. And she damn sure wasn’t ever leaving him again.
Period.
End of discussion.
I hear you, his mind screamed at his heart.
Damn right, his heart responded.
He sighed. First steps were indeed a bitch. He turned away from her,
