Page 106 of Shadow Of Sin

The first day here is probably the quietest day of my life. And I mean that in the best way possible.

At dinnertime, we move around the kitchen together. Wolfe boils pasta that I found in the pantry, and I heat sauce from a jar. I pile both plates high with food, and we eat on the couch with our legs tangled together. Sal would disown me if he saw this meal. He’d probably cry.

“This sauce is total crap,” I say, my lips twisting. “It’s so…ugh. Sweet. This is not how sauce is supposed to taste. Sal would be horrified.”

“Jar sauce is efficient.”

“Efficient is not a compliment for food, Wolfe.”

“Yeah, but it accomplishes the objective.”

“The objective of tasting like ketchup with an identity crisis?”

He smiles. “I’m sure it’s not the worst thing you’ve ever tasted.”

I let out a snort. “I don’t know. This stuff is dangerously close to the food I had to choke down in prison.”

After dinner, we wash and dry the pots and dishes. Then he places a hand on the small of my back and leads me out to the porch. Toward the two chairs. His hand reaches across the gap and finds mine in the dusky blue evening. We sit there, watching the sky turn inky and the stars glitter on the dark canvas.

For one hour, I let myself forget that we’re hiding out here because a Russian criminal is trying to destroy my life.

For one hour, I’m just a woman holding hands with a man on a porch in the woods.

I sneak a sidelong glance at Wolfe. Something is off with him. I’ve been feeling it all day. Small things. The way he looks at me for a second too long, like he’s taking a photograph with his eyes. The way his hand finds my face at random moments, his thumb tracing my cheekbone like he’s trying to make sure I’m still real. The way he wraps his arms around me, keeping them locked for a second longer than he used to, almost as if he’s bracing for the moment he might have to let go.

I file it under “Operation: Dismantle Dmitri Stress” because the alternative is a door I’m not ready to open.

I wake up suddenly hours later, shooting up from the mattress. My hand reaches for Wolfe but he’s not there.

Stifling a yawn, I creep into the hallway and move toward the kitchen where I find him standing at the counter staring at a glass of water like it owes him an explanation for something.

“Can’t sleep?” I ask softly.

He turns, his blue eyes devouring me. His Black Sabbath shirt skims the middle of my thighs. I run a hand through my sleep-tousled hair as I take a step toward him. A shadow eclipses his expression, taking on a darkness I’ve never seen before. It’s deeper, hungrier. Equal parts want and fear.

I swallow hard, my pulse kicking against my throat.

He looks at me like he knows exactly what he has to lose.

“Come here,” he says.

I cross the kitchen. He puts his hands on my waist and pulls me against him and just holds me. His chin rests on top of my head. His arms wrap around my back. I press my face against his bare chest and his heartbeat thuds under my cheek.

We stand there for a long time. No words. Just his body and mine and the sound of him breathing.

“You’re doing it again,” I murmur.

“Doing what?”

“Hanging on to me like I’m about to bolt. You’ve been acting weird all day. The face touching, the staring. I’m not stupid, Wolfe. You’re somewhere else.”

His arms just tighten around me.

Which is basically a confession.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. His hands come up to my face, his thumbs on my cheekbones. He looks at me with those piercing eyes and my stomach flips because I can finally see what’s flickering in the depths.

It’s grief. Like he’s mourning something that’s still alive.