Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body)

by Naima Simone

  “You wouldn’t let me come to the hospital,” she said.

  “No,” he stated, voice flat.

  “Why?” she demanded softly. He didn’t reply, only fisted his fingers at his sides. “I would’ve come. If you’d let me, I would’ve,” she murmured, then bent and brushed her lips over the scar on his waist.

  Jolting as if struck by a bolt of lightning, he whipped around, a fierce frown darkening his face. “What the hell are you doing?” he growled.

  Slowly, she straightened, the truth glued to her tongue. She hadn’t paused to debate the gesture but had acted on impulse. And need. A need born of the many times in her childhood when her hurts and scars had never been kissed or even acknowledged. Her mother had been too preoccupied with the next husband, aka victim, and her father had been busy at work. Even as a little girl, she’d realized the simple act of lips to a bruise or scrape wouldn’t magically erase the sting or ache. It was the attention that soothed the sting. The love and caring that said, I can’t make the pain go away, but I would take your hurt into me if I could.

  Shane wouldn’t have allowed his mother to tend to his wounds. When Fallon had first met him, he’d been a mature, contained eighteen-year-old. And even back then she’d had the feeling he’d been that way for a long time. After meeting Trudy Roarke, she understood why. Though affectionate and loving, Shane and Addy’s mother hadn’t been the most…reliable or stable. Shane had been the adult in that family.

  Lying in a hospital bed, enduring unimaginable pain, he’d probably still been the one to comfort his mother and sister, not permitting them to baby him.

  He deserved to have someone fuss over him. Deserved to have someone kiss his scrapes.

  But explaining that to him—telling him she’d only wanted to take away his pain—wouldn’t go over well. Not at all.

  Instead, she shrugged a shoulder. “I didn’t—”

  “Think,” he snapped. “You don’t think before you act.” He snatched up his shirt and, yanking it over his head, strode from the living room.

  “Well, ouch, damn it.”

  In spite of her flippant response, his harsh words sliced into her, and she swiftly worked to cauterize the wounds before they bled freely. Only Shane could inflict that kind of damage. Not her parents; she loved them, but after years and years of carelessness and emotional negligence, Fallon had built an immunity to their thoughtless cuts to her heart and spirit.

  Shane, though, he still retained that power.

  “Look,” she continued when he reentered the room several moments later, carrying a cup, “I know spending the night in my apartment on my couch isn’t how you envisioned passing your time—”

  “You don’t know anything,” he interrupted. That aggravating icy calm had returned to his voice—and belied the hard shove of the warm mug into her hand. The aromatic scent of peppermint floating to her nose halted the acerbic comment hovering on her tongue. Tea. He’d made her tea.

  “Thank you,” she murmured then sipped. Humming, she closed her eyes, savoring the minty flavor and the comforting, warm slide of liquid down her throat. She opened her eyes and found Shane seated in the chair next to the sofa, his shadowed, unwavering gaze focused on where her mouth rested on the rim of the cup. For a long, taut instant, she didn’t move, didn’t breathe. The heaviness of his stare could’ve been tactile, brushing over her lips, caressing them…

  Finally, when her lungs started to rebel at the lack of oxygen, his intent study lifted to her eyes. She could read nothing in the shuttered, turquoise depths. Releasing a trembling sigh, she lowered the mug.

  “I don’t regret being here, Fallon,” he said in his low, controlled tone. “Like I said before, I wish you would’ve called me, not Addisyn.”

  “So you said.” She peered down into the steaming dark brown liquid. “But I didn’t want to impose. I’m not family, and the police assured me I would be safe.”

  “You are—”

  “Don’t call me your sister again. We both know I’m not.”

  “—like family,” he finished as if she hadn’t cut him off. “And it damn sure wouldn’t have been an imposition. Cases like yours are what we created GDG Security for.”

  GDG Security Solutions. The independent firm Shane and his friends, Ciaran Ross, Khalil Jordan, and Maddox Wright, owned and ran together. She’d always been curious about the business—a company made up of ex-military and law enforcement—and had even once purposefully driven by the brownstone on Arlington Street where the office was located. Everything she’d discovered about the firm, she’d Googled, too embarrassed to ask Addisyn and reveal her hunger about any details regarding Shane to her best friend.

  “GDG.” She leaned forward. “I’ve always wondered what it stood for.”

  A beat of silence. “Gold Dust Green.”

  Huh. “Does it mean something special?”

  “In the military, it means everything’s okay, good to go.” Another beat of silence. “Focus, Fallon.”

  Irritation flashed, and she took another sip of tea. “I am focusing. Sue me for being curious. But fine. I should’ve called you when I decided to do something as foolish as witness a gangland hit. My bad. Next time it happens, you’ll be first on my to-do list. Right under ‘don’t die,’” she drawled.

  He didn’t roll his eyes, but she suspected it was a close call.

  “Agreeing to be a state’s witness against a notorious gang leader when other people probably would—and did—claim spontaneous blindness and deafness is commendable,” he said. “But I’m not going to lie, Fallon, if I had a vote, I would’ve preferred you’d been one of those witnesses struck dumb and mute rather than have you involved with Jonah Michaels and the Lords of War. Yeah, it’s brave, but damn, it seems like trouble finds you like a heat-seeking missile.”

  “Aaand this is my fault, how?” she asked from between gritted teeth. “Hold on, hold on,” she countered, holding up a hand, palm out. “Let me guess. I’m reckless, rash, and I don’t think through consequences.”

  How many times had she heard those words from him through the years?

  He studied her, drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Have you forgotten about buying property on the moon in case an apocalypse swept across the Earth—”

  She snorted. “I was seventeen and had just finished reading The Stand.”

  “And the time you donated your first year’s college tuition check to the Hurricane Katrina relief fund without your father’s knowledge—”

  “Really?” she demanded. “Forget it being an incredibly altruistic gesture, but I did that years ago.”

  Shane arched an eyebrow. “And breaking into Addy’s ex-boyfriend’s car and planting spoiled eggs and garbage under the seats? That was just two years ago.”

  Stiffening, she set her tea on the coffee table. “He was a douche who cheated on Addy and broke her heart. Was it childish? Sure. But if you’re waiting for me to apologize, forget it. Sometimes you have to go ‘yippee-ki-yay’ on a person who deserves it.”

  He stared at her. Blinked. Then slowly nodded. “Yippee-ki-yay. Got it. Next time you’re in lockup and I’m trying to get you out, I’ll make sure to explain your philosophy to the arresting officer. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

  “I think I liked you better when you didn’t talk so much,” she grumbled, snatching up the remote control and turning on the television.

  He had a point—and she hated it. But other than the anomaly with Doug the Douche, Addisyn’s cheating rat-bastard ex, she’d prided herself on using her head more often now, not rushing headlong into situations with the purpose of seeking attention.

  Once upon a time she’d been thirsty for someone—anyone—to notice her, to love her. But one morning in her sophomore year of college after waking up in the bed of boyfriend #4 in as many months, she’d stumbled into his bathroom, stared into the mirror above the sink, and found her mother gazing back at her—seeking affirmation and love in the false words and affe
ctions of anyone with a halfway decent line and dick.

  That day, she’d walked out and vowed that if no one could love her, she would have to depend on herself to do it. No more careless relationships or reckless acts to threaten her academic and professional future. She didn’t need a man or his pretty lies to validate herself. She’d buckled down, decided what she’d wanted to do with her life, and pursued it with a passion and diligence that had surprised her father and delighted Addy. And herself.

  But Shane wouldn’t know about any of that. He’d been deployed overseas, and then when he’d returned home, spending time with her hadn’t exactly been on his to-do list. She probably fit somewhere between waxing his short ’n’ curlies and a colonoscopy.

  Yet…his opinion still mattered.

  And it still hurt that he couldn’t see there was more to her than the rash eighteen-year-old who’d ambushed him in his mother’s kitchen. How did she fight that?

  A better question.

  Why did she care?

  …

  The air, thick and sticky, trapped Fallon in its smothering embrace as she turned around, the movement torturously slow. The barrel of the gun seemed to expand, to fill her entire vision. She tried to shift backward, to the side, attempted to do anything to avoid that ugly, black void of death. But it followed her like the head of a striking snake. Running was useless—impossible. Her feet were fused to the ground, refusing to move.

  The gun barrel started to glow an ominous red, orange, and yellow like a fire simmering in the belly of a great dragon. She opened her mouth wide, but the same air that stifled her motions seemed to fill her throat, lodging the scream in her windpipe.

  Frozen, she stared as fire exploded from the end of the weapon, and the bullet sliced toward her…

  “No.” Fallon jackknifed off the couch, the sheet she didn’t remember covering herself with, tumbling to her waist. Wild, she scanned the room, frantically searching for the gun and the men who wanted to take her life. Heart striking her chest like a hammer against metal, she clutched the white cotton covering her legs. Sweat dampened her skin. Terror stole the moisture from her mouth. She shuddered, a whimper escaping her.

  “Shh.” A large, hard, warm palm cupped her cheek. “It’s just a dream, baby. You’re safe.”

  She latched onto Shane’s hand as if it were a lifeline, an assurance in the dark that she was indeed, safe. “Hey. Look at me.” The gentle but firm command reached past the jagged edges of panic and snagged onto the reason not enshrouded by the remaining vestiges of her nightmare. She met his bright, steady gaze, clung to the comfort and security in it. “It was just a dream. You’re okay, baby. Breathe for me. With me. That’s it.” He lifted his other hand, cradled her face between his palms. Instinctively, she followed his deep, even inhalations, and eventually her breathing leveled. Her heartbeat no longer thundered in her ears like relentless waves crashing against a rocky shore.

  The pad of his thumb swept the skin under her eye. “Better?”

  No. “Yes.”

  “Good,” he murmured and rose from his crouch next to her.

  Alarm blared inside her, loud, harsh, violent. “No,” she rasped, her grip on his wrists tightening. “Don’t leave me. Please.”

  Yes, she was begging him to stay with her, to continue touching her. Yet, she couldn’t dredge up disgust for how weak she sounded. Not when the claws of the nightmare lurked just on the fringes of her subconscious, waiting for her to become vulnerable again. Waiting to sink its talons into her once more.

  He hesitated, but after a moment, lowered to the cushion beside her. The solid heat from his hip pressed into hers, but it wasn’t enough. Like a little girl afraid of the monsters under her bed, she scrambled onto his lap, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in the crook between his throat and shoulder. She inhaled his fresh scent, took it into herself like a lucky talisman.

  “Fallon,” he murmured, tone as strained and tense as the big body beneath her.

  “Just for a little while,” she pleaded. “Please.”

  A caress so light that for a moment she almost believed her desperate mind had imagined it swept down her hair. The air stilled in her lungs. Because if she had conjured it, maybe the soft stroke would come again. And it did. A strong arm curled around her back, long fingers settling on her hip. Slowly, she exhaled. Relaxed. Burrowed into the welcoming, safe haven of his chest.

  Sighed.

  Her lashes lowered, drowsiness creeping in to tug at her. She drifted, floating on a delicious, warm current. Quiet descended over the room, the only sounds their hushed breaths.

  As she drifted back to sleep, firm lips brushed over her curls, across her forehead.

  “I have you,” a low voice rumbled. Vowed.

  Or maybe she dreamed that, too.

  Chapter Five

  The weak late-morning sun struggled to beam down on Shane as he leaned against the hood of his truck outside the District A-1 station of the Boston Police Department. The breeze was surprisingly brisk for May, and several people hustled past him, hands shoved in pockets or collars jacked up around their ears as they hurried toward the front entrance of the station. A couple of officers shot him curious glances as they passed by him in the parking lot.

  Run me in. He met their gazes head-on. You’ll be doing me a favor after last night. Yeah, a little disturbing the peace charge would be the perfect excuse to avoid a repeat of the hell he’d endured the night before. Allowing the police to do his dirty work smacked of cowardice. But when a man faced down temptation that made Eve’s apple look like a Little Debbie snack, he could be forgiven for contemplating running scared.

  “Fuck me,” he growled, crossing his arms. He deserved a goddamn medal for the restraint he’d exhibited. Especially when Fallon had kissed the scars on his back. Scars he could’ve gone the rest of his existence without her ever glimpsing. A hot flash of humiliation speared him. He wasn’t ashamed of his wounds. How could he be? Not when Marcus had given his life so Shane could stand here today, damaged but alive. On reflex, Shane grazed his fingers over the three dog tags concealed beneath his shirt. Two of them belonged to him, and one to Marcus. The other half of his dead friend’s ID hung around his GDG partner Khalil’s neck.

  Still…

  He hadn’t wanted Fallon to ever see the marks. They represented a dark period when he’d been terrified, grieving, vulnerable. When the body he’d always considered strong and capable had been dependent on the tubes invading his flesh, and his mind and reason had been muddied by drugs. A period when he hadn’t been able to see a future past the frosted glass doors of Walter Reed Army Medical Center’s ICU.

  If he’d had his wish, his mother and sister wouldn’t have been allowed in to see him, but his CO and doctors had overruled that while he’d been under. His family’s presence at his hospital bed had been out of his control, but Fallon’s had not. He’d refused. Having her witness him hooked up to countless machines, helpless as a baby…weak…

  Yeah, never would’ve been too soon for her to observe those scars. And last night…

  His gut clenched at the phantom sensation of her lips caressing flesh that had been deadened to sensation since an enemy bullet had gouged out a chunk of skin and tissue. But, it’d seemed like the moment she’d pressed her mouth to him, nerve endings had regenerated and fired to life. The pleasure—the pleasure had bolted through him like he’d stuck his finger into an electrical outlet. For a moment, he’d forgotten every reason why touching her was a bad idea: little sister’s best friend; different as night and day; asking for trouble if Addy ever found out.

  It’d taken every scrap of control he tenuously possessed not to tangle his hand into those gorgeous curls, drag her around, crush his mouth to hers, and taste the sweet flavor he’d spent seven years trying to forget. Required every ounce of restraint not to lay her out on the couch, floor, table—hell, any flat surface would do—and sink his cock into her inch by inch.

  But he ha
dn’t. He’d walked away. Damn near ran away, needing space and a breather before he could return with a semblance of calm.

  And he deserved to be fucking canonized for the sacrifice.

  A memory flashed across his brain. Fallon, standing at the end of the sofa in a T-shirt that did nothing to hide the perfect thrust of her breasts and shorts that barely covered her hips and ass. Fallon, a hunger she probably wasn’t even aware she revealed darkening her gray eyes. Fallon, staring at his cock like it was the Eighth Wonder of the World.

  He clenched his jaw against the onslaught of lust razing a path straight to his dick.

  Damn canonized. He deserved a halo and wings.

  The front entrance to the police department swung open once again, and this time the man he’d come to see emerged.

  Tristan Scott, Boston Police detective and Shane’s childhood friend, crossed the parking lot, his long, confident stride eating up the distance. He had every right to that self-assurance. At thirty, Tristan was one of the youngest detectives on the force. He’d always known what he’d wanted for his future—to be a police officer just like his father and his grandfather. He rose steadily in the ranks of a career he loved and owned a home in South End with his beautiful fiancée of two years, Joy Sanders. Tristan had the dream—at least the dream Shane desired.

  Stability. Family.

  Growing up with Trudy Roarke as a mother, he appreciated the need for stability, security, and routine. While he’d never doubted his mother’s love, and she’d never shorted him and Addy on affection, hugs hadn’t paid the power bills or the rent. Kisses hadn’t filled the refrigerator with food. And neither could erase the dread of climbing the stairs of their South End apartment building, afraid to look at the door in case another eviction notice was taped to the front. He’d craved normalcy. Had joined the Army in search of it. While others had chafed at the rules, discipline, and rigid structure, he’d craved them—flourished under them.

  He still embraced them.