He slammed both fists down on the dresser top. “You had no right!”
The wood shuddered beneath another slam, echoing the feeling in his chest. He’d known she’d betrayed him. Known that everything about her was a lie. He’d even known she had the ability to be doing anything with a computer, including tracking each and every one of her coworkers.
Still, he hadn’t imagined this.
Lyse’s soft words sliced through his thoughts like a knife. “No, I didn’t have the right,” she agreed. “I didn’t. I shouldn’t have—”
“No, you sure as hell shouldn’t have!” Fire flashed through him, part shame this time, and part something he didn’t have any desire to identify. Instead he used it like a weapon. “What are you, some kind of voyeur?”
Lyse hesitated for a long moment. Fionn kept his fists on the dresser, kept his back turned, afraid of what he’d do if he let himself get near her again. “No,” she said, just as quiet as before, “it’s not that at all.”
“Then what is it? Why watch me?”
“You know why,” she finally whispered, the words so quiet he would’ve had to strain to hear them if he hadn’t been so intent on her, hadn’t been hyperaware of every move she made, every breath she dragged into her lungs, every sound escaping her lips. He whirled around—
And stopped short. Lyse’s fingers were balled into a fist that rubbed hard at her chest like she had earlier, only this time— God, she was shaking. It hurt, looking at her, seeing her so vulnerable. And that fist…
It was her tell, he realized. When she was anxious or nervous. Had he ever noticed that about her before?
No, because he hadn’t truly noticed her before.
Except that wasn’t true either. He’d noticed her too much; that was why her betrayal had hit him so hard. Why he couldn’t let it go. Because this woman he wasn’t supposed to want was really the one who’d drawn him over and over. Hell, he wasn’t blind to the fact that most of the women he dated had dark hair and delicate builds, just like Lyse. That when he closed his eyes and touched a woman, took her, he was imagining someone else beneath him. He hadn’t wanted to admit it, though, not because Lyse was too young—the excuse he’d given Deacon time and again—but because she was too naive. Because the innocence shining from her eyes hadn’t been for him to take, no matter how much he’d wanted to.
Except she wasn’t innocent, was she? It had all been an act.
The frustration of that, the anger sharpened his voice. “There’s nothing for you to be worrying about. I’ll not touch you again.”
Sad eyes rose to meet his. Did she realize how much those eyes revealed? How they could tear a man to shreds with a single look? “I know.”
God, he was a bastard.
A heavy growl escaped him, and he realized he was shaking too—with the need to take her, the need to run. Before he did something he knew he’d regret later, he forced himself away from the dresser. “Let’s go.”
Lyse flinched away, then paled as pain had her flinching again. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. “I can manage on my own, thanks.” She gave him a smile, the same one she’d always given him when they used to work together, but this one never reached her eyes. “I’ll be out in a few minutes. Would you tell Siobhan I need her for the new dressing, please?”
Please. So sweet, so innocent and polite. Would it sound the same if she was begging him to make her come? If she was begging him to spare her life? He nodded jerkily.
Grabbing a robe from the chair in the corner—probably something his mam had brought for her—Lyse slipped from the room. He watched her go, wishing everything in him didn’t cry out to follow her.
He didn’t. He forced himself down the hall, away from the knowledge that she was naked beyond that closed door. That no matter how much he should hate her, everything inside him wanted to force his way into that room and force Lyse beneath him until all the confusion and lust and anger inside him finally disappeared in the wet, welcoming heat of her body.
Chapter Fifteen
The whisper of skin against sheets woke her from a restless sleep. Lyse kept her eyes closed and prayed that Fionn would leave quickly. She had no desire to face him this morning—or ever. Last night had been humiliation enough.
But that was her life now, wasn’t it? She couldn’t escape it. That chance had disappeared the moment she’d let Fionn catch her scent. When this was over, he take her back to the States, probably to face prosecution for setting the bomb inside Global First. If she’d thought that maybe, just maybe, the physical attraction that had flared between them the past couple of days might make a difference, well, last night had cleared away that fantasy. Decimated it, really.
The snick of the door closing allowed her to take a breath. Pain throbbed deep in her side, keeping her from falling into the deep sleep she so desperately needed, but she managed to drift, escape reality. Only when the scent of coffee and cinnamon rolls filtered beneath the door did she force herself to gather the tape and scissors Fionn had used last night, fresh bandages, and clothes and take them into the downstairs bathroom to shower. Sparing herself more embarrassing moments—until she made it to the kitchen.
Deacon was there, standing directly across the room, dark hair falling forward into his face. He leaned his heavily muscled body casually against a counter, a cup of coffee wrapped in his big hands, at ease. Happy. Elliot, his fiancée, was good for him. After losing his
