“Great,” I drawl, twisting my face so I can inhale his pine scent.
We’re both silent as Tate continues to run through the woods, stopping periodically to glance over his shoulder at the eerily silent and still woods. There’s no one in sight, but I don’t allow myself to relax. Tension continues to thrum through me like a palpable entity that’s sitting on my shoulders. My heart ricochets in my ribcage as I listen for the assassin. Because I have no doubt that’s what he is—an assassin sent to kill me.
Honestly, he’s a pretty shitty one if he couldn’t hit one measly heart when I was unaware of his presence.
We must’ve been running for over an hour when we break through the forest, stopping in front of what appears to be a corrugated iron warehouse. Tate wastes no time racing forward and wrenching the metal door open. He doesn’t bother to look if there’s anyone inside, using his foot to kick the door shut behind us with an audible clank.
I stare around the derelict room, practically gagging over the noxious smell—stale piss, coppery blood, and something I would almost describe as shit. When Tate gently sets me on my own two feet, I accidentally step in a puddle, and I pray to whoever’s listening that it’s only water.
There are a few blankets and pillows pushed against the far wall, and I reckon that this warehouse has been used by numerous homeless men and women throughout the years. Fortunately, it appears to be deserted at the moment.
“Let me look, baby.” Tate’s voice is far gentler than I’ve ever heard it before, and his eyes are wide with panic and desperation as he slowly removes my jacket. He reaches into his back pocket and procures a knife, slicing easily through my shirt until I’m left in only my sports bra. Tenderly, he pushes down the sleeve until the wound is bared to his assessing eyes currently spewing vitriol. “Fuck!”
“Who the hell was that?” I demand, wincing as Tate touches at the tender flesh. Anger rampages through me. Some fucker shot at me. He could’ve hurt Tate! As soon as I find this son of a bitch, I’m going to hang him from the rafters, stick a knife in both of his wrists, and watch him bleed.
“Does it look like I know?” Some of Tate’s original ire returns as he shoots me an annoyed look. “I’m not some assassin expert.”
“But you are an assassin. And a cop. Maybe you know him,” I insist, followed immediately by, “Stop touching that, you shithead!”
“I need to get the bullet out, brat,” he grumbles. “And for the record, not all assassins hang out and go to the bar after work. Stop being stupid and hold still.”
“I’ll show you stupid—” I break off as pain once more unfurls across my shoulder, and I just barely hold in my gasp. The pain quickly transitions into something else, something almost pleasurable, and the embers of power in my stomach begin to flicker errantly. “Wait, Tate!”
“What now?” He grants me an irritated look, but even his annoyance does little to conceal the fear in his eyes. Tate is scared. For me. The delicate wings of dozens of butterflies begin to flutter in my chest.
“Press down,” I instruct, and when he simply raises an eyebrow, uncomprehending, I elaborate, “On the wound, jackass. Press down until I’m screaming in pain.”
His mouth opens, closes, and then immediately opens once more. He looks confused, and honestly, a little terrified, as if he’s questioning my mental stability.
“I need more pain,” I explain in a prolonged exhale. “I think I’ll be able to heal myself.”
“Fuck no!” He holds both hands up in the air, still coated with my blood, as he stares at me with barely veiled disgust and horror. “I’m not going to hurt you!”
“You love hurting me,” I argue with an eye roll.
Anger flares to life briefly in his dark gaze, and his hands, still raised, clench into fists.
“I never like hurting you.” The vow vibrates through me, almost like an intense burst of electricity, and a flurry of shivers skip through my veins. His eyes lock on mine, ensnaring my own like a trap laid artfully beneath debris and leaves in a forest. Fucking Tate. And fuck the way he makes me feel.
“You hurt me all the damn time.” I mentally berate myself when my voice shakes, when pain flays me open like a whip repeatedly raining down on my spine.
Tentatively, I bring my hand to the bloody wound and stick one finger into the hole. I’m sure there’s a perverted joke somewhere in there, but I’m too lost in the agony to think of one.
“Fucking stop it!” Tate bellows, his pain as thick and cloying as my own. He scrubs a hand through his messy dark hair as I press down harder, biting my lip to hold in the anguished sob that wants to escape. I can feel my power festering in the pit of my stomach. It’s still small, now a flame instead of an ember, but I know I can feed it until it grows into a blazing inferno, capable of setting this entire fucking world on fire.
And maybe that’s what this world deserves for what it did to me.
“Emily!” Tate lunges forward, but I stealthily dance away from him.
“Stop acting like you care!”
“You don’t think I care?” He laughs, but the sound is dry and humorless. It cuts at my skin like a blunt-edged razor blade. “All I fucking do is care!” With wild, desperate eyes, he towers over me. “You’re all I fucking care about!”
“Then why do you push me away?” I demand. And fuck…the pain in my shoulder is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. “All we do is fight and fuck and then fight some more. That’s not healthy, Tate.”
Tears blur my vision as my fingers caress
