Page 131 of Cold Mercy

“Can we have one,” he murmurs, his voice low enough that the booth swallows it, “where you don’t look like you’re counting the seconds until you can escape me?”

My lips part, surprised by the honesty in his tone.

“One,” I say quietly. “That’s it.”

He nods like I agreed to something reasonable. He slides his hand confidently to my waist, resting it where it belongs.

He wants a reaction? Fine. I’ll give him one he won’t forget. I want to mess with him the way he’s been messing with my head all night. I want to see if I can make him break first.

Right before the flash, I lift my hand and cup his cheek, warm fingers grounding him. I lean in, soft and intentional, and press a kiss to his other cheek.

But he moves, pulled by some unseen reflex or just raw hunger, turning his head sharply at the last possible second. My lips don't just miss his cheek; they crash straight into his mouth in a collision that was never part of my plan.

The camera flashes, freezing the moment of impact. He pulls back barely an inch, his eyes dilated, searching mine. I am pressed back into the corner of the booth, trapped between him and the wall, my lashes fluttering, my heart hammering against my ribs like a caught bird. It's impossible to stay away from this man. He sees the surrender before I even admit it to myself.

His hand snaps to the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, gripping tight enough to hold me in place. He drags me forward and kisses me again.

He doesn't ask, he's claiming me. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting me with a possessive intensity that makes my knees weak. He kisses me like he wants to own the breath in my lungs.

Fuck, what am I doing?

The thought screams in my head, but it is drowned out by the roar of my blood. I open my hands for him, clutching his shirt and dragging him closer instead of pushing him away.

His other hand moves, sliding up my thigh with deliberate ownership, pushing the fabric of my dress aside until his palm finds bare skin.

The camera flashes again, capturing us lost in the wreckage.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard, his forehead resting heavily against mine. We stare at each other in the dim light, both of us wrecked, and only I realize we just crossed a line we can't uncross.

“Fuck,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Not again.”

He laughs, a low, ragged sound against my swollen lips, his grip on my neck tightening possessively.

“Too late, princess. You started it.”

Important note: Do not provoke Thomas Reed unless you are prepared to be handled. I tried to string him along, and he ended up leading me by the throat. Fucking amazing.

I drop my gaze, slip out from under his touch, and stand, smoothing my dress like I haven’t just detonated something between us. I rise, steadying myself as I step out of the booth.

The machine whirs and spits out two identical photo strips.

We both reach for them, his fingers brush mine, and I still, eyes flicking down to the pictures before lifting back to him with a sharp look.

“I will take this with me,” I say coolly. “I’ll be forced to look at the most inconvenient problem I ever had every time I'm going to miss home.”

“Small correction, princess,” he says. “Because when we leave together, we’ll look at it and laugh about how dramatic you were.”

I snort. “In your dreams.”

“Maybe,” he says calmly. “But I don’t imagine a future that doesn’t include you.”

The words hang between us, heavier than I expected.

“Wow,” I say lightly, forcing a laugh. “That was almost romantic. Careful, Reed. Someone might think you mean it.”

His tone is teasing, but his fingers tighten around the photo strip. He doesn’t look at me when he says it.

“I do,” he answers, just as evenly.