Total pages in book: 39
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 192(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Including feelings, probably.
And then there’s his eyes. They’re light, focused, constantly tracking. Like he’s cataloging the world in real time, sorting threats from non-threats, deciding what gets close and what doesn’t.
I know I should stop staring. But I can’t. He’s so good-looking. No, he’s more than that. So much more. He’s gorgeous. Like maybe in another life he could have been a movie star. An action star. He’s definitely got the body for it.
But it’s more than his face. It’s what he does with it. The restraint. The stillness. The way he carries himself like a weapon.
I stab a piece of bacon and pretend that’s the reason my pulse keeps doing stupid things.
He told me to finish eating like he’s my coach and my warden at the same time. Normally, I’d be offended, except he made me eggs, and my body has decided eggs are now intimate.
I swallow, set my fork down, and take another sip of coffee. The mug’s warm in my hands. The kitchen’s quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the house settling.
Safe house quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think. I don’t want to think. Thinking leads to realizing that my life is currently a moving target, and my phone has been tattling on me like a snitch with a data plan. So instead I think about Sin.
Which is also dangerous, just in a completely different way.
He turns slightly, glancing toward the window, then back to me. “You done?”
I lift my chin. “Yes.”
He takes the plate without a word, rinses it, and sets it in the sink. Efficient. Controlled. Like he does not believe in lingering.
I watch his hands. Long fingers. Strong. Clean nails. No rings. A faint scar near one knuckle. The hands of someone who’s done things he doesn’t talk about. My brain, which is supposed to be in survival mode, offers up a vivid, completely unhelpful thought about those hands on my waist.
I choke on my coffee.
Sin’s head snaps toward me. “You alright?”
“Yes,” I croak. “Just inhaled wrong.”
He studies me like he’s deciding whether coffee is now a threat. “I can Heimlich you,” he jokes.
“I hate that I find that reassuring,” I mutter.
His mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. He fails by a fraction. That fraction is lethal. He wipes the counter with a towel, then leans back against it, arms crossing. The casual stance doesn’t match the intensity of his gaze. “Tell me about the story,” he says.
My brain stutters, trying to switch gears from Sin’s forearms to organized crime. “Which part?” I ask. “The part where powerful people are laundering money, or the part where someone turned my phone into a surveillance device.”
“Start with the money,” he says. “Then the names.”
I nod slowly, gathering myself. This is what I do. I connect dots. I chase patterns. I make dangerous men uncomfortable. I tell him more than I told Cal. Not because I’m reckless, but because Sin looks at me like he can handle the truth.
I explain the nonprofit network again, but this time I go deeper. The donor lists. The contracts. The way a few specific names kept popping up in places they didn’t belong. The fundraiser where I asked about a contract number tied to a “consulting group” that was allegedly providing crisis management.
Sin’s expression stays controlled, but I see the moment something catches.
“Crisis management,” he repeats.
“Yeah. On paper it’s PR. In practice…” I shrug. “It’s the kind of thing you hire when you want a problem to disappear.”
His gaze hardens. “What was the name of the group?”
“Fielding Group,” I tell him.
He doesn’t react. Not visibly. But his eyes shift slightly, like he’s filing it away.
“What?” I press. “You know it?”
“I know the type,” he says. That’s not an answer. But I let it go, because his face just tightened in that way it did in The Bridge when his phone buzzed.
His family.
I hesitate, then take a breath. “Sin, can I ask you something without you doing the whole ‘Rowan’ thing?”
His brow lifts. “Try.”
“Why are you… like this?” I gesture at him, at the calm vigilance, the way he seems built for danger. “You’re not just a bodyguard. You’re… intense.”
The corner of his mouth almost lifts, then stops. “That’s a compliment?”
“It’s an observation,” I say. “Compliments are earned.”
Sin holds my gaze for a long beat. Then, surprisingly, he answers. “My father,” he says. Just two words, and the air changes.
I straighten in my chair without thinking. “Your father.”
Sin uncrosses his arms, setting his mug down, and looks past me for a second like he’s seeing something that isn’t in this kitchen.
“He was presumed dead when I was a kid,” he says.
My heart slows. “I’m sorry.”
His eyes flick to mine. “Don’t be yet. The story doesn’t end there.”
He exhales once, controlled. “It was an accident. That’s what we were told. Wreck on a back road down by the river. No body recovered.”