“I came in for all the prisoners.”
“Bullshit.”
“Excuse me?”
“You crawled through a drainage culvert and ripped out a man’s throat to stop him putting a needle in my neck. That wasn’t for the prisoners, Briar.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“I’m not flattering myself. I was in that chair for two days. Ribs broken. Eye shut. And you came through that door and the look on your face—”
“Stop.”
“The look on your face was not operational.”
“I said stop.”
“No.”
He stands up. I stand up. We’re facing each other on the porch, and the six inches is gone because he closed it, and his scent hits me. Wolf and clean skin and underneath it, healed, strong, three days of rest doing exactly what Sable said it would. My wolf strains forward so hard my hands shake.
“You won’t tell me what’s different,” he says. Close. Low. “Fine. You won’t tell me why you came for me. Fine. I know why.” His eyes find mine. “But I’m done pretending, Briar. And I think you are too.”
“You don’t know what I’m pretending.”
“I know you’re standing inches from me and you haven’t backed up.”
He’s right. I haven’t.
“Back up,” I say.
“No.”
“Garrett—”
“Make me.”
Two words. His mouth twitches on them. A dare. The kind of challenge that would’ve gotten him a fist in the throat threeweeks ago. But tonight it makes heat flood between my thighs so fast my vision swims.
I shove him. Both hands on his chest. Hard. He catches my wrists and pulls me forward. I slam into him, and his mouth finds mine. The kiss is exactly what we are: rough, angry, honest. His teeth on my lip. My hands fisting the front of his borrowed shirt. The sound I make against his mouth is involuntary and raw. I don’t care.
He walks me backward through the cabin door. My back hits the wall. His hips pin mine, and I can feel every inch of him through his jeans, thick and hard. I’m reaching for his belt before I’ve finished thinking about it.
What are you doing, Briar?
I’ve spent the past three days keeping my distance because I can’t think straight around this man.
“We shouldn’t—” I start.
“Shut up.” He pulls my shirt over my head. His hands find my breasts, and the grip is everything I need. Firm, rough, the hands of a man who knows I don’t break. I arch into his palms, and his thumbs drag across my nipples. The noise that comes out of me isn’t dignified.
He lifts me. My legs around his waist, his hands under my thighs, and we go down on the narrow cot together. The frame groans beneath us.
“The cot’s going to collapse,” I say.
“Then it collapses.”
He’s pulling my jeans off. I’m working his. The tangle of limbs and denim in the tiny space should be clumsy, but it’s not. It’s frantic and messy and real.