Page 55 of The Triangle

I want him, he knows that. Has known that for a very long time. And he knows how I want him too. With Alec. And if we don’t all want the same thing then this is never going to work. It will always be nothing more than a series of meaningless, uncontrollable, primal urges.

And that’s not good enough. I deserve more. He deserves more too. I don’t want to trap him, I don’t want to lead him into this.

I want him to want it.

And that’s not something I can control.

He sighs, releasing yet another level of tension locked up tight inside his body. “I missed you too. I’m glad you’re here. Not glad Alec came with you—”

“Why not?” I ask, leaning back again so I can see his face. “Why do you hate him so much?”

“He…” But he stops. Just stares down at me with that scanning look in his eyes like he’s trying so hard to read my barcode. Then he smiles. Just a small one. “We tried. It didn’t work.”

“It worked,” I say. “It so worked.”

“Look at us, Christine.”

“We look pretty fuckin’ great! We’re not starving anymore. We’re not homeless anymore. We’re not in survival mode anymore.”

Danny smiles, sucks some air in through his teeth, and shakes his head. “We’re lying low in a bunker, Christine. Don’t let the view fool you. We shot our way through a gang of thugs at my garage and left behind half a dozen dead bodies. And if I didn’t make that old Jeep into a tank we’d all have holes in our heads the size of baseballs—”

“I don’t need a recap,” I say.

“—and I don’t know what you call that, but I call it survival mode. Two days ago I’d have agreed with you. Two days ago Alec van den Berg was nothing but a bad memory. And now he’s back—”

“And I’m back too.”

“But you wouldn’t be here without him.”

For a second I don’t know what that means. It could go one of several ways. I wouldn’t be an assassin. True. I wouldn’t be alive. Also true. I wouldn’t be back with Danny.

“Not true!” I say, deciding the last one is right.

And then I do something stupid. Something ridiculous. I start to cry. And it’s not even fake.

“Christine—”

But I can’t look at him and I’m too busy wiping my eyes anyway.

“Stop it,” he says, grabbing my wrists and pulling them away from my face.

But my instincts kick in and there’s a flurry of movements, arms twisting and body turning, and I’ve broken his hold and there’s a loud crack.

Because I just slapped him across the face.

He stands there, hands up kinda half-heartedly defending himself from my attack, and laughs.

So I slap him again.

And then his eyes narrow. And his instincts kick in too. He grabs my shoulders, turns me around, and pushes me up against the wall of glass, tight grip on my wrists as he slams them into the window and pins them there so I have a perfect view of paradise as he presses the whole weight of his body into my back.

I hold my breath, unable to see where this might go.

He leans down, his mouth next to the soft, sensitive skin under my ear, and whispers, “I love you. You know I love you.”

“Then why are you fighting me?”

“I want you for myself.”