Not for the first time, Michael was glad that he didn’t know where his brothers had been taken. They were safe. Hidden.
Michael pushed his food away. He’d barely touched it, and he didn’t want it now. “There’s always a chance of a Guide being in town,” he said. “Nothing different about today.”
“You have a bigger target on your back,” said Tyler.
Michael scowled. “Nothing different about that either.”
His cell phone chimed. Michael tensed and fished it out of his pocket. Another message from Hannah.
I’m worried about you.
He didn’t respond. He hadn’t answered any of her texts since leaving his neighborhood with the fire marshal.
It was killing him.
But hearing those gunshots and knowing she was in the woods—he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t go through that again. He needed to end this. She’d never be safe while involved with him.
His thumbs hovered over the phone anyway. He wanted to reply. He wanted to invite her over. He wanted to spend one night away from fear and anger and worry, to just be a guy and a girl.
But that wasn’t possible for him.
For her either.
He shoved his phone back in his pocket.
A knock sounded on Tyler’s front door, and they were all instantly on high alert.
Tyler stood up, but Hunter put up a hand. “They could shoot you through the door.”
No one moved.
Finally, Michael stood up. “Wait. I’ll answer it.”
“It’s my house,” said Tyler.
“Yeah, but I’m the one they’ve been trying to kill.”
Tyler considered that, then stood back.
Michael stopped in front of the door. He looked through the peephole, but the person was wearing a ball cap and looking at a phone. Through the distortion of the fish-eye lens, he couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.
He held his breath and turned the dead bolt, ready for a bullet to hit him in the chest.
Nothing happened.
Then a female voice from the other side said, “Are you going to open the door or what?”
Michael opened the door. “Hannah.”
She stood there in a cap and raincoat and jeans, everything speckled with raindrops. Her eyes were red rimmed yet furious. “I don’t know whether to hit you or hug you.”
“Do both,” he said.
She did one better. She kissed him.
CHAPTER 25
Hannah hadn’t realized how much she’d missed Michael until she was pressed against him. She’d taken him by surprise with the kiss—but it wasn’t long before he caught her waist in his hands and kissed her back. She loved the way he kissed: slow and strong and sure, nothing hurried, as if he needed to memorize each moment.
Someone cleared his throat from farther back in the apartment, and Michael broke the kiss, but he only drew back a few inches. His brown eyes were close and intent on hers.
“You left that out of the options,” he said.
“My bad.” Her anger had dissipated, leaving only relief that he was safe and well and here, right in front of her.
He caught her face in his hands. His palms were warm against her cheeks, and she thought he might kiss her again.
Instead, he sighed and closed his eyes. “You need to go home,” he said, letting go of her face and taking a step back. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Talk about a one-eighty. She frowned. “Why?”
“I don’t want—” He hesitated and made a frustrated noise. He sat against the back of the couch and gripped the edge hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “I want to keep you safe, Hannah. It’s not safe for you to be around me right now.”
Her day had been too long and too intense, and she didn’t even want to attempt to make sense of that. “Why?”
“I can’t tell you.”
Her anger had burned off during their kiss—but it flared right back up again. “You can’t tell me.”
“No.” He met her eyes. “I can’t tell you.”
“Bullshit. You can’t say something like that and expect me to turn around and drive home.”
“That’s exactly what I expect,” he said. “You can’t throw a fit and expect me to explain things that are a hell of a lot bigger than just me, okay?”
“A fit? You think I’m throwing a fit?”
He inhaled like he wanted to placate her.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t bother.” She wanted to hit him. Hard. Right in the face. She knew how to throw a punch, and it would probably feel fantastic to drive her rage into something.
But she didn’t. She was bigger than that.
“Don’t talk down to me,” she said. Her hands were still in fists at her sides.
“I’m not talking down to you.” His jaw was tight, and he looked like he wouldn’t mind getting into it either. “I’m trying to protect you—”
“Screw you, Michael. You think I’m some damsel in distress? You think I want your protection? You don’t know what I can handle. You have no idea.”