Heated

Chapter Twelve

The moon shines down on the low stone wall, making the limestone glow and the bits of quartz shimmer. A ruin now, mostly rubble, but this part of it still stands on the hill looking down at the house.

I kneel behind it, looking over the rocks. Looking across the field.

Looking at the house where he lives. Looking at him moving around inside, so sure that he’s safe behind the glass.

“You don’t have to go to the academy. You don’t have to become a cop.”

I turn my head and face the balding man with the gentle blue eyes.

“I do, Daddy,” I say. “I have to make it right. I’m the only one who understands why it’s so important to make it right.”

“You can’t,” he says. “See?” He reaches for my hands, and I see that they are slick with blood. “How can it ever be right?”

Fear slices through me, and I look to the house again.

He’s not walking anymore. He’s prone. He’s dead.

And the blood flows and flows, filling the field, climbing the hill, reaching for the wall. Reaching for me.

I start to scream and reach for my father, but he isn’t there.

Run, I think. Now is the time to run.

I race forward toward the house, screaming for her, searching for her.

She has to be there. Now that he’s dead, she should be there.

But she’s gone.

And as the force of the dream thrusts me upright and out of sleep, I scream for my mother … but I can’t even remember if she was ever there at all.

My eyes fluttered open, the dream still clinging to me, gray and cloying.

Tyler’s arm was still around my waist and he was breathing soft and evenly. I didn’t want to disturb him, but I also wanted to move, to shake off the last wisps of the nightmare. Carefully, I slid from his embrace, then scooted to the edge of the bed, taking care not to disturb the mattress too much.

Once up, I padded to the elegant bathroom, trying my best to stay quiet. I didn’t know what time it was, but since the drapes were open, I knew that it was still dark out.

When I returned to the bed, I noticed that there was no clock. Automatically, I reached for my phone, but it was still in the living room, safe inside my purse. I almost went to get it, but then I saw Tyler’s watch on the bedside table. I sat on the edge of the bed and picked it up, then tilted it to try to see the face in the ambient light from the city.

I frowned, realizing that the second hand wasn’t working, and when I held it up to my ear, there was no ticking.

“It doesn’t work.” Tyler’s voice skimmed over me, rough with sleep.

I turned to face him. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s okay.” He sat up, then reached for the watch. “It’s been broken for years.”

“Oh.” Maybe I was tired, but I didn’t understand. “Can’t it be repaired?”

“It can,” he said. “It’s not time yet.”

He put it carefully back on the table, then laid back down, pulling me with him.

I reached for the sheet, then pulled it up over both of us. “You’re being cryptic,” I said.

“I suppose I am. It was a gift from a friend. A mentor, really. Hell, he was practically a father to me. He passed away about six months ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, propping myself up on an elbow and facing him. “Will you tell me the rest? Why haven’t you had it repaired?”

“Well, that depends. Maybe it’s a secret. Are you prepared to tell me yours?”

“My secrets?” I felt the quick stab of fear. What the hell did he know of my secrets?

“Not that,” he said gently, and I realized that he’d seen my fear and worried that I was recalling my terror of being bound. “But there are things you’re holding back. Admit it. You haven’t told me the whole truth, have you?”

A cold chill swept over me. “No,” I admitted. “But I don’t know all your secrets, either.”

His smile was thin, but there was mirth in his eyes. “Sweetheart, you don’t know any of my secrets.”

“No? Then why don’t you tell me.”

“I don’t think so.”

I realized that I’d tensed up, my body ready for battle. I breathed in and out and told myself to relax. “I thought you said you trusted me.”

“No. I just said that I wanted to.” He reached out and stroked his fingers lightly down my arm. The gesture was sweet and casual, and I doubted he even knew he was doing it. Somehow, that made it all the sweeter.

“The truth is, I haven’t felt this way in a very long time,” he continued as he tugged me close and curled his body against mine. “Not since I was young and didn’t really understand what I had—and what I lost.” He spoke softly, the words holding even more intimacy than his touch. “Now, I think I understand, and I recognize it.”

“What?”

“That click,” he said. “That connection. It’s passion, Sloane. And it’s promise.”

My back was spooned against his chest, and I closed my eyes, then told myself to remember to breathe as he gently stroked my hair. I couldn’t deny how good it felt to be in his arms, but I also couldn’t forget that he’d spoken of trust.

And I didn’t trust him. Hell, I didn’t trust anyone. “Don’t make this more than it is,” I said.

“It already is more.”

I rolled over, then opened my mouth to protest.

“Shut up, Sloane. We’re not going to come to any sort of agreement with words. But in the silence, in the dark, I think we’ll come together just fine.”

He kissed me then, and as his warm hands slid over my naked skin, I had to admit he was right—we came together just fine.