Page 54 of Sexting His Assistant

His mouth curves faintly, impossibly. “You first.”

I almost cry. I almost laugh.

Instead, I press my forehead to the side of his good arm for one second, just one, because my body needs proof that he’s still here, warm and solid and infuriatingly alive.

His hand comes to the back of my head.

Blood, danger, and everything between us forgotten for half a heartbeat.

Then his phone rings.

He answers with his good hand.

I cannot understand all of what he says, but I understand the tone. Cold. Commanding. A man already shifting from victim to predator.

His eyes turn toward the black window as the city blurs past us.

When he ends the call, the car is silent except for the engine and my breathing.

“Who was that?” I ask.

His gaze stays on the window. “Security.”

“What happened?”

“A breach.”

“A breach?” My voice rises. “That was not a breach. That was people shooting at us.”

His eyes return to mine. There’s something in them now that makes the air in the car feel thinner. “It wasn’t random,” he says and falls silent. There’s something he’s not telling me.

“Take him to the hospital,” I say the second the car clears the service exit.

My voice sounds wrong, thin and panicked. Not like me at all.

Luka’s sitting beside me in the back seat, his head tipped slightly against the leather, one hand pressed to his shoulder while blood seeps between his fingers and darkens the side of his shirt. He looks pale in the passing streetlights, but his eyes are open, bright, furious. Not frightened. Not even close.

Apparently being shot is just another scheduling inconvenience for him.

“No hospital,” he says.

I stare at him. “You have a bullet in your shoulder.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you speaking like I told you there’s traffic?”

His mouth tightens. “Because there’s no hospital.”

I twist toward the driver. “Take him to the hospital.”

The driver’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror and immediately away, which tells me everything I need to know about whose orders matter in this car.

Luka’s voice lowers. “Nina.”

“No,” I snap. “Don’t Nina me. You’re bleeding all over the seat.”

“It’s an armored car. It has seen worse.”