He still held her hand. She looked up into those blue eyes, those lips—the upper lip with a divot at the top like a bow.
His eyes darkened, and he leaned down toward her, as if wanting to assert that he was alive now.
She held her breath and let him, wanting the same after the long day of horrors.
His kiss started gentle and featherlight, lips barely brushing hers.
Heat flashed through her, as electric as it was warm.
She rose up on her toes and deepened the kiss, needing to explore it further, to explore
Then she flashed on the pale ring of skin around his tanned finger.
It was a kind of tattoo that marked him as readily as the lightning scar.
He was a married man.
She leaned back, bumping into the washstand. “I’m sorry.”
His voice was hoarse. “I’m not.”
She turned her head away, angry at herself, at him. She needed to catch her breath and get her head on straight. “I think we need to step back from this.”
Jordan took a careful step backward. “Far enough?”
That wasn’t exactly what she meant, but it would do. “Maybe another step.”
Jordan gave her a quick, embarrassed smile, then retreated another step and sat down on the bed.
She sat on the other end, her arms crossed over her chest, needing to change the subject. Her voice came out too high. “How’s your other shoulder?”
He had hurt it while being yanked through the hole as they escaped the collapsing tomb.
Jordan swiveled his arm around and winced. “Hurts, but I don’t think it’s serious. Less serious than being pancaked in the mountain.”
“Being pancaked in the mountain might have been easier.”
“Who says the easy path is the right one?”
She blushed, still feeling the heat, the pressure, of his kiss. She looked down at her hands. She spoke after the silence stretched for too long, glancing toward the door. “What do you think they want with us?”
He followed her gaze. “Don’t know. Maybe to debrief us. Swear us to secrecy. Maybe give us a million dollars.”
“Why a million dollars?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I’m just saying … let’s be optimistic.”
She looked at the dirty toes of her sneakers. That was hard to do, to be optimistic, especially with Jordan sitting half naked next to her. The heat of his bare skin reached across the distance between them. How long had it been since she’d been in a room with a naked man? Let alone one who looked as good as Jordan, or who could kiss half as well?
Silence again stretched out between them. Jordan’s gaze went far away; likely he was thinking of his wife, of the brief betrayal of this moment.
She searched for another topic of conversation. “Do you still have your first-aid kit?” she blurted out too loudly, startling him out of his reverie, causing him to flinch.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Guess I’m still a bit on edge.”
“I don’t bite.”
“Everybody else does here,” he said with a grin.
She smiled back, feeling the tension break between them.
He dug his first-aid kit out of the pocket of his discarded pants, still on the bed. “Let’s start with your leg.”
“I’d better do it.”
Right now she’d rather bleed to death than let him mess with her thigh. Once he got started there, who knew where it would lead?
“Maybe you’d better get dressed while I deal with this cut?” she suggested.
He smiled sheepishly and handed her the kit. She turned her back to him as he pulled on clean black pants. She kept her eyes focused on her leg. The wolf scratch wasn’t as bad as it seemed in the desert. She washed her wound carefully, then slathered it with antibacterial ointment and taped on a gauze bandage.
Jordan stood uncomfortably close, but at least he was wearing pants now. “That dressing looks pretty good. Do you have any medical training?”
“In a manner of speaking. I grew up in a compound where outsiders were forbidden from touching us—not even to take care of us when we were sick.”
It was rare for her to share this part of her life with anyone. Shame surrounded her past, shame for being so gullible, for not fighting back sooner. A therapist once told her that was a common emotion for survivors of chronic abuse, and she would probably never fully escape it. So far, the therapist had been right.
Still, bits of her history had somehow spilled out to Jordan.
“That’s nuts,” he said.
She hid a small grin. “That’s a succinct way of summarizing it. But it made sense at the time, as isolated as we were kept.”
“I grew up in Iowa in a cornfield. With a passel of brothers and sisters, we were all about scrapes, skinned knees, the occasional broken bone.”
A twinge in her left arm reminded her that she’d suffered the latter, too. But she doubted that Jordan’s brothers’ and sisters’ breaks were inflicted on purpose, as lessons. She kept silent. She didn’t know Jordan nearly well enough to talk about that.
To the side, Jordan dried off his chest.
She fixed her eyes on the old wooden door, the stone floor, anything but him.
He finally picked up a clean shirt and tugged into it. “How did you get out of that place?”
She busied herself packing up the first-aid kit. “After they tried to force me into an arranged marriage when I was seventeen, I stole a horse and rode into town. I never went back.”
“So you lost contact with your family?” Jordan lowered his eyebrows sympathetically, in the way that only someone with a normal loving family would.
“I did. Mother’s dead now. Father, too. No siblings. So, I’m all there is.”
She didn’t know how to end the conversation and was afraid she would suddenly start babbling about her father and her sister, who had died when she was only two days old—and then who knew what else she’d spill?
She stood and crossed to the door. Maybe waiting in her room was a better idea.
Jordan followed, touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”
A voice—Rhun’s—called from the hallway, its tone urgent with worry. “Sergeant, Erin is not in—”
The door opened on its own, and Rhun stopped short, staring inside, surprise etched on his face.
Jordan spoke from behind Erin. “Doesn’t anyone knock around here?”
Rhun quickly collected himself but remained in the hallway. The ruined garments from the desert still hung off his body in tatters, but he had washed most of the blood from his skin. His dark eyes traveled from one to the other, and his spine drew even straighter than usual, which Erin hadn’t thought possible.
Her cheeks burned. At least the priest hadn’t come in a few minutes earlier.
Jordan buttoned his shirt. “Sorry, padre, but Erin and I decided to stick together after all.”
“You are both here. That is all that matters.” Rhun turned on his heel, indicating they should follow, the stiffness never leaving his spine. “The Cardinal awaits his audience with you.”
Jordan felt disapproval rising off the priest’s body in waves. He finished buttoning his shirt and tucked it in while following Erin out into the hall. She walked along with her eyes on the floor.
Korza maintained an icy silence as he led them down the passageway and up a winding staircase. Ambrose met them at the hallway at the top, greeting them with a disapproving look—or maybe that was merely his regular expression. Jordan remembered his mother’s oft-repeated admonishment:
