Page 30 of Knife Thrower

Nova beams, her heavy-lidded green eyes flashing with pure delight. “I’ll hold you to that, Cole.”

Jonah brings out the cake next. He custom-ordered the monstrosity from a small bakery in town. It’s shaped like a stork, but the execution failed spectacularly. The bird has hollow, terrifying black eyes and a beak that looks dangerously similar to a plague doctor’s mask.

“It looks like it harvests souls,” Logan observes, cutting a massive slice anyway.

Eventually we scatter. People wander toward the edges of the awning, plates of horrifying stork cake in hand, the volume settling into a dull, comfortable roar.

I don’t wait another second.

I cross the dirt, navigating around the scattered wrapping paper, and slide onto the wooden bench right beside Sloane. Proximity is my weapon. I leave a deliberate sliver of space between our thighs, but if I can feel the warmth of her body, then she feels mine too.

She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t edge away. She turns her head, those striking eyes locking onto mine, entirely fearless.

“Enjoying the carnage?” I ask, resting my elbows on the sticky table.

“Teddy is a danger to produce everywhere.” The ghost of a smile plays on her lips. “I feel for the baby.”

“The kid has three parents who possess more combined lethal skills than a small militia. He’ll survive a few dropped watermelons.”

Silence stretches between us. The banter fades, replaced by the electric tension that hums across the sawdust every night. The noise of the cantina dulls to a distant hum. My heart thuds a slow, violent rhythm against my ribs.

She rests her hand on the table, her long, pale fingers loose and relaxed.

I slide my hand across the wood. My knuckles brush against hers. Just a fraction of contact. Skin grazing skin.

Sloane’s breath hitches. Her fingers twitch, an instinctual flex of muscle, but she doesn’t pull her hand back. She leaves it exactly where it is, anchored to the wood, a silent surrender of the ironclad boundaries she usually enforces.

The blood in my veins instantly turns to fire.

I turn my hand over, sliding my fingers under hers, and lift her hand off the table. Her skin runs cool against mine as I drag my thumb across the center of her palm.

The thick, raised ridge of scar tissue sits rough against the pad of my thumb, and I dip my chin, bringing her palm directly to my mouth. Then I press an open-mouthed kiss straight to the center of the scar.

Sloane’s eyes widen. The cool, impenetrable detachment completely shatters. Her chest rises on a sharp, ragged inhale. Her pulse jumps wild and frantic against my lips.

She doesn’t yank her hand away. Her fingers curl, tracing the line of my jaw, trembling slightly against my skin.

“Let me take you on another date,” I whisper, my breath washing hot over her palm and my fingers.

She stares at me, blinking. Her throat works hard, a heavy swallow clicking in the quiet space between us.

She nods.

A grin splits my face, and I know it’s entirely too triumphant. The relief hits me so hard my shoulders actually drop an inch.

Then her jaw sets. The fierce, stubborn woman who stands in front of flying steel returns, her chin tipping up in a silent challenge.

“My turn to plan it,” she states, her voice rasping slightly.

My eyebrows jump toward my hairline. “Oh?”

“You set the terms last time. You picked the location, the food, the music.” She slides her hand out of my grip, tapping a finger against the center of my chest. “My terms this time. I pick the spot.”

I lean closer, consumed by the fierce, defiant fire burning in her gaze.

“I am absolutely terrified,” I murmur, my grin turning wicked. “And completely yours.”

A sharp, piercing wolf whistle cuts through the humid air of the cantina. The sound shatters the electric bubble wrapping around us.