“That’s what you’re doing.” The scent of leather filled the car’s interior. “Giving me guards. Trying to protect me, twenty-four, seven. You can’t do that. I’ve told you already, I won’t live in a prison. Not even for you.”
“I want you safe—”
“There’s no guarantee of safety. Not for any of us.” Ben Sharpe had discovered that truth. “The guy on the street was a reporter. He would have taken some pictures and been done. He’s not going to be the only one who comes wanting a story, and you can’t attack reporters every time they show up.”
He slowed at a red light.
“He could press charges against you,” she whispered.
“Let him try.”
The wildness was there again. In the slightly cruel curve of his lip. In his eyes as he glanced over at her.
Trace was balanced on a razor’s edge—he’d been that way for weeks, and Skye couldn’t help but wonder what would happen when he fell over the edge.
Her hand lifted and curved around his. His fingers were clenched tightly along the wheel. “You saved me, Trace.”
His eyelids flickered.
“You got me out of that basement. I’m alive. You’re alive.”
A car horn honked behind them.
Swearing, Trace accelerated.
She didn’t let him go.
“Everything is going to be okay,” she told him. She wanted to soothe him, to just hold him.
But Trace gave a hard shake of his head. “You don’t know…” His words faded into silence.
“What? What is it that I don’t know?”
“You have your nightmares. I have mine.”
“What happens in your nightmares?”
He was staring straight ahead, at the dark road. “I don’t get to you in time.”
Her heart seemed to stop.
“And without you, I go fucking insane.”
***
Every man had a strength.
And every man had a weakness.
When it came to Trace Weston, the man’s greatest weakness was Skye Sullivan.
From the shadows, he watched as the reporter stomped away. The guy was clutching his camera. Muttering about lawsuits.
Interesting.
He crept up behind the man. He’d overhead their conversation easily enough. Trace had been so focused on Clyde Jones that he’d never looked around for another threat.
His mistake.
No, his weakness. The woman seemed to consume Weston, and when a man fell that hard—
It was the perfect moment to strike.
He pulled out his weapon, and his fingers curled around the handle of his knife.
It would be so easy to take out Clyde Jones. A fast swipe of his knife. The guy was a leech. A vulture who made his living by feeding off the pain of others.
If he killed Jones, then he’d probably be doing the world a favor.
But he’s not my target.
Jones swore and headed toward the busy intersection. “Taxi!” Jones shouted.
He put up his knife. He’d learned to control his impulses long ago. Jones could keep breathing.
But Weston? Soon enough, he’d be dying.
Chapter Five
He grabbed her, his fingers closing tight around her arm. Trace yanked Skye against him, and her eyes flew open. She couldn’t see anything, it was too dark, but she knew his touch.
“Trace?” She whispered.
“Can’t let go…” His fingers bit into her as he muttered those words.
Skye tried to shift toward him. They were in bed. It was the middle of the night and—
“Didn’t want to…kill…”
His rasped words stole her breath.
“So…fucking sorry…have to do it…”
And his hands lifted—to her throat.
“Trace!” She screamed his name as real fear pulsed through her.
He stilled.
The only sound then was their breathing—both ragged. Panting.
“Skye?” Confusion thickened his voice.