Uncut Bundle

Crap!

He shut off the sprays, stepped from the stall, dried off. Took a deep breath. Then he wrapped the towel around his waist and flung open the bathroom door.

Light spilled into the bedroom.

He saw Mia, lying as he’d left her, arms raised above her head, wrists manacled. Her head drooped but the second the light hit her, her chin came up. Her face was tear-streaked but the old defiance was back, manifested in the jut of her chin and the glitter in her swollen eyes.

Something shapeless and dark stretched feathery wings deep inside him.

He strode toward her, opened the cuffs that secured her to the bedpost and drew her arms down.

She whimpered in distress and he told himself that the stab of pain he felt on hearing it was meaningless, just a whisper of human empathy, that was all.

He wouldn’t have been troubled by it back in his Agency days, but wasn’t that one of the reasons he’d left? Because the Agency was a black hole that had damned near sucked the humanity out of him?

No way did his reaction have anything to do with Mia. He’d have felt like this for anyone.

Yeah. Sure you would.

Matthew cleared his throat. “You have a lactic acid build-up in your muscles,” he said crisply. “It’ll ease in a couple of minutes.”

She didn’t answer. He clasped her shoulders. She was trembling, and tried to jerk away.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he growled. “Let me get some circulation back. You’ll feel better.”

He ran his hands up and down her arms, gently kneading her flesh. Her trembling stopped but there were still tears in her eyes.

How come seeing them put a knot in his throat?

A muscle jumped in his cheek. He touched the chafe marks the cuffs had left on her wrists.

“You shouldn’t have struggled against the cuffs.”

She didn’t answer. Fine. He’d made his point, scared her into compliancy just as he’d intended.

The truth was, he wouldn’t need the cuffs anymore tonight. She was going to be docile. Besides, he was wide awake. He could keep an eye on her. No sweat.

“Better?”

Still no answer. He took her hands in his. They felt icy. It wasn’t cold in the bedroom. The overhead fan was doing its thing, moving the night air in easy circles, cooling the room without chilling it.

He put his hand against her cheek. It was cold, too. Shock? Out and out physical shock? No. She had none of the other signs.

Emotional shock, then. That made sense. It explained her trembling, her acquiescence…

And those tears, welling in her eyes.

“Hell,” he muttered.

He put his arms around her. She came to life in a second, shoving against his chest and shoulders.

So much for being docile, he thought, and almost laughed at how good it made him feel to see the fight in her return.

“Easy,” he said, wrapping her tightly in his arms, but she kept struggling and they tumbled sideways on the bed. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

She got one hand free and swung at him. There was no force behind the blow—she couldn’t get her arm back far enough for that—but her knuckles grazed his chin.

“Damn it,” he growled, “I said I wasn’t going to hurt you!”