Page 46 of Cruel Kiss

"You were going to shoot her," I say.

Ronan puts the subpoena on the dashboard. "I was going to do something. I hadn't decided what." He looks out the windshield. "I didn't know it was her, at first. I saw a gray car pull up close behind us on the highway. Lights in the grille, no markings? That's not how cops usually do it. It looked like the kind of car Lev's people use when they want you to think they're something they're not."

"So you thought it was an ambush," I say.

"I thought there was a chance someone had come to take you. And that I had about three seconds to make sure they didn't."

I don't know what to say to that. My whole body was braced to be furious at him. I had the speech loaded up, the same old riff on who gets to decide what, when, where, how, and why.

But he wasn't reaching for a gun to be a tough guy. He was reaching for a gun because he thought someone was coming for me, and his answer to that, the very first thing his hand did, was put himself between me and it.

It's the wrong response. It's a criminal response. If he'd gone through with it, a lot of people—ourselves included—might've gotten hurt or killed.

So why do I feel so tingly all of the sudden?

I become very aware, all at once, that a minute ago, my hand was wrapped around his wrist. I can still feel it. The heat of him. The hardness. The car is small and he's right there. Last night's fantasy is still simmering in my veins, too.

I glance over at him. It's a mistake.

Because his eyes are already on me. And when I make the further mistake of letting my gaze drop to his lap, just for a second, I get all the proof I need that I'm not the only one in this car thinking things I shouldn't be.

He feels it, too. Whatever this is.

"Drive," I say. "Please."

I wedge myself back against the passenger door, as far from him as the seatbelt lets me get, and fold my arms, focusing all my attention at staring very hard out the window at nothing.

Ronan puts the car in gear.

"That's probably for the best," he growls in a choked voice that's chock-full of things he refuses to say out loud.

13

CALI

The kids are asleep by nine. I check on them twice, just because I want to see their chests going up and down. After the day I've had, you can hardly blame me for turning into a paranoid helicopter mom for a minute.

Then, when all my anxieties have been eased by the sounds of my little elves happily slumbering, I go downstairs.

To where the real battle is about to begin.

Ronan is at the kitchen table. There's a folder in front of him, but I can tell by the distant glaze in his eyes that he's not reading it. It's more like he's pinning it in place with the sheer power of his stare, hoping that he can use Superman laser beams or whatever to incinerate it into smoke and make it not our problem anymore.

I've tried that myself on more than one occasion—including trying to turn Ronan himself into smoke. It hasn't worked for me, so I figure it's probably kind of me to spare him the effort.

"It won't work, you know," I advise him as I sit in the other seat.

"What won't?"

"Sticking your head in the sand and praying all our problems go away."

He laughs mirthlessly. "That's not exactly my M.O.,Cali."

"Yeah," I retort, "I know. Your M.O. is more along the lines of 'shoot all your problems until they go away.'"

"Still mad about that, are we?"

"Can you blame me?" I cry out with a snort. "This world of yours is not for the faint of heart, Ronan. And I'm no softie, but, like… c'mon. A girl has her limits."