Page 13 of Nomad: Violent Devotion

“Maybe it is.” My voice is a dare. I want to see how far he’ll go. I want him to stop pretending this is anything but what it is, a fucking game we both want to lose.

“I’m not finished figuring you out.”

“I didn’t realize I was a crossword puzzle.”

“No.” His voice drops lower. “You’re a damn mystery.”

I hold his gaze. “And you’re obsessed.”

“I’m curious.”

“Same thing.”

His expression hardens. “I’m not done with you yet.”

The words shouldn’t send a shiver through me, but they do. Not because they sound possessive. Because they sound inevitable. Like he’s made a decision he doesn’t fully understand himself.

My pulse betrays me, and I fucking hate that. I hate that my mind keeps dragging me back to the bike. The press of his body against mine and the wind tearing at my hair. I wanted to rip his shirt off right there on the highway, wanted to see if he’d let me ride him the way I rode that machine—wild, reckless, daring the world to watch.

I push the thought away and square my shoulders. “You’ve asked your questions.”

“And you haven’t answered one.”

“That’s because you aren’t entitled to the answers.”

Something dangerous flickers across his face, a flash of temper, barely leashed, as if he’s one word away from losing control.

Before I can take another breath, he closes the remaining distance between us, crowding my space until my back meets the wall. One broad hand braces beside my head, not trapping me so much as daring me to push him away.

“You infuriate me,” he says, his voice rough with restrained emotion, the words coming out harsher, louder than I think he intends. It’s not just irritation anymore—it’s agitation, the kind that aches to spill over.

“So I’ve noticed.”

“You don’t take anything seriously.”

“I take plenty of things seriously.”

“Like walking into a firefight?”

“Like surviving.”

For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks. The air between us hums with challenge, stubbornness, and questions neither of us is willing to answer. His eyes search mine, and I refuse to look away.

The tension stretches taut enough to snap right before he leans in and captures my mouth in a fierce kiss born of equal parts anger and frustration. I meet him without yielding, refusing to surrender an inch as the clash of wills dissolves into a heartbeat where neither of us is certain whether we’re fighting or simply trying to silence the questions between us.

When he finally pulls back, we’re both breathing harder. Neither of us has won, and neither of us knows how to walk away. Frustration coils tight in my chest, a living thing, growing sharper with every breath I take.

I should kill him.

The thought rises, sharper and more urgent, the way my father trained me to think. Eliminate the threat. Complete the mission. Walk away clean. But the urge twists, tangled up with something hot and reckless. I don’t want to walk away yet. And I sure as shit don’t want clean. I want him filthy and desperate and mine.

My hands find his chest, fingers curling into the worn cotton of his shirt. I feel his heart pounding beneath my palms, steady and strong and so fucking alive. His pulse mocks everything I was raised to be.

“You’re a fucking problem,” I say, and my voice comes out rough, edged with something that sounds too much like need.

“I’ve been told.”

“No.” I push him backward, one step, then another, until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. “You’re my problem.”