Carter Reed 2

I gestured to the punching bag. “How to fight. I want to know.”

He stepped back and unzipped his sweatshirt. A shine of sweat covered his chest as it heaved for air. He rested an arm on the bag, watching me. “You want to fight?”

I’ve killed two men. “It wouldn’t hurt.”

“No.”

I hadn’t been expecting that. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.”

He started to turn for the bag again, but I caught his arm. “Why not?”

Instead of looking me in the eye, his gaze went past my shoulder. “Because you shouldn’t have to fight. That’s my job,” he answered, with his mouth stretched tight.

“Hey.” I reached up, took his chin, and forced him to look at me. “Fighting is both our jobs. Dunvan. Ben. I killed those men. My hands are already bloody, and I’m in this fight. Whatever it is—I’m here. I’m at your side. If the woman you love doesn’t know how to fight, she shouldn’t be there.”

A stricken look came over him, and the corners of his mouth softened. “Emma.” He reached for my hand.

I moved back, my hand falling away from him. “No. I’m by your side, Carter. This is our life now. A bomb went off. You can’t protect me all the time. I know you try. I know the guards are there, but if anything happened—I have to know, too.” My throat constricted. “And if something happened to you, god forbid, I’m going to be there, trying to protect you, too. I’ll do it whether I know how to fight or not.”

“Emma.” His voice was so quiet.

I swallowed over a lump. I was right, and he knew it. “Look, I understand. You love me. You don’t want me to deal with this life, but I’m here, and it’s happening. Teach me to fight, and maybe I can help, in some small way.”

He touched the side of my face. “If anything happened to you…” He hesitated.

I rested my hand over his. “Something already did.” My voice grew firm. “It’s time, Carter. I’m not innocent. Stop treating me like I am.”

“It’s because I love you—”

“And I love you. Equip me with the best skills to be the woman at your side. It’s the smart thing to do.”

He closed his eyes. He nodded and let out a deep sigh. “I know. You’re right.”

He was the man I loved, but I had gone to him in the beginning because he was the Cold Killer. He was going to be pulled into that world, no matter what he did, because he still loved those people.

I could understand his pain. He didn’t want me to be affected any more than I already was. Giving me the tools to fight might cause me to tread somewhere I wouldn’t have gone otherwise. Maybe. But if he was in danger, my friends were in danger—I would defend them no matter what.

“Trust me,” I urged him.

“I do.” His eyes searched mine, and I saw the struggle there. “You shouldn’t have to be somewhere and worry about a bomb going off—or even worry about having to protect someone,” he said. “That’s my life, and I hate that it’s affected you like this.”

“I know, but it has. I pulled you in before. Now you’re pulling me in. That’s how it is. That’s what you do for someone you love.” I grabbed the ends of his sweatshirt and pulled him close. “You go where they go. You walk their same path. What happens to them, happens to you. It’s the burden of loving someone. You deal with it because that person is there when you need them. You helped me; now let me help you. Give me the skills to help you, too.”

He caught the back of my neck and pulled me to him. He smiled. “No matter what, I’m proud you’re at my side.” Then his lips fused with mine, and he murmured against them, “Once you’re healed, I’ll train you. I promise.”

I was going to hold him to that.

It was the middle of the night when I woke to find Carter slipping from the bed. I sat up, groggy, and looked at the clock. 3 am. Then I heard the knocking.

“Who is that?”

Carter looked back at me, pulling a shirt on. “There was no warning. I’m assuming it’s one of the guards.” But after he pulled some pants on and reached for his gun, I knew there was a question to that statement. He gripped the weapon in one hand and bent down to press his lips to my forehead. “I suppose you’re not going to go back to sleep.”

As he straightened, I threw off the covers and clambered for my own clothes. I snorted. “Are you kidding me?”

His eyes darkened in disapproval. “You stay back. I mean it, Emma.”

I threw him a quick frown, hopping on one leg as I struggled to pull my jeans up. Sleepiness, a sore body, and jeans were a deadly combination, but I was going.

“I mean it, Emma. You stay back, no matter who it is.”

When they knocked again and he didn’t leave to answer, I knew he wouldn’t until I agreed. So I did so, reluctantly. “Okay, but I’m coming to listen. I’m not staying in bed.”

The knocking came again. Carter looked back at the door. “Come quietly. I’m going.”

“Okay.”

He disappeared from the doorway, and I hurried. Grabbing the other 9mm—the one Carter didn’t know I knew about—from the closet, I made sure the safety was on and headed down the hall behind him. Shoes. Shit. Remembering one of his rules—always be prepared to run—I went back and slipped on some sneakers. Then as quietly as I could, I went out to the living room. When I got there, Carter was talking to Thomas so I slowed to a walk, knots in my gut. They spoke in quiet, hushed tones, and as I approached, both looked at me with emotionless faces. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">