Born in Blood (The Sentinels #1)(71)

Okay. That was the last thing he expected.

He studied her pale face, which revealed a calm acceptance that he was fairly certain he didn’t deserve.

“I think I’m apologizing for letting it consume me,” he muttered. “Or at least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

“By who?”

He shrugged. “My ex-wife, my mother, my sisters, the old lady next door—”

She held up a hand. “Yeah, I get it. They’re worried about you. But that doesn’t make your love for your job wrong.”

He reached to grasp her fingers, searching the depths of her stunning eyes for the truth.

Could she actually understand?

“I don’t want you to feel as if I’m putting you in second place.”

“I don’t” She leaned across the table to brush a light kiss over his mouth. “Of course, there’s a difference between being obsessed with your career and using it as a barrier to keep people at a distance.”

She did understand.

All too well.

“How did you know?” he demanded, grudgingly recalling the dates he’d broken because it was easier to stay at the station than spend a few empty hours trying to act interested. Or the Sunday family dinners he’d skipped because he didn’t want to be the target of his meddling sisters’ attempts to set him up with their endless parade of friends.

“Because I’ve used my fear of being rejected to do the same thing.”

He smiled with rueful amusement. “So what you’re saying is that we’re a match made in heaven?”

“Or we’re both so screwed up no one else could stand us.”

He chuckled, pressing her fingers to his lips. “I’ll go with that.”

On cue, the phone started its insistent ringing. Callie smiled, giving his arm a squeeze.

“Answer,” she commanded softly. “It might be important.”

He pressed the phone to his ear, knowing she was right. This wasn’t about burrowing himself in work so he could ignore the barrenness of his life. There was a crazed necromancer out there who had to be stopped.

“O’Conner,” he growled, his brows lowering as he listened to the crisp voice of his chief. “Where? I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He ended the connection and met Callie’s curious gaze.

“Who was it?” she demanded.

“The chief.” He absently gathered the dirty plates and took them into the kitchen. “She said that a man appeared at the station claiming that he was the rightful owner of Calso’s coin.”

He hadn’t realized Callie had followed him into the kitchen until she spoke directly behind him.

“Where are you supposed to meet him?”

He turned, frowning down at her expectant expression. “Callie, it’s too dangerous—”

She reached up to pinch his lips together, effectively halting his protest.

“Don’t go there,” she warned. “We’re in this together.”

He nipped the tips of her fingers before pulling them from his mouth.

“Stubborn.”

The aggravating female smiled, knowing she’d won. “Determined.”

“Same thing,” he muttered. “Come on.”

He led her out of the apartment and to his car, silently promising himself he’d go hunting for a new apartment on his first day off. He had high hopes that he could convince Callie to spend more than one afternoon with him. She deserved better than this run-down complex that’s only saving grace was that it happened to be close to the station.

Maybe he’d even look at a house, he decided, as he pulled out of the parking lot.

With a yard and dog and swing set . . .

He was just getting to the white picket fence when Callie thankfully yanked him from his ridiculous train of thoughts.

“You didn’t tell me where we’re going.”

He cleared his throat, feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck. Christ.

“The police station.”

She frowned. “Why did you say it might be dangerous?”

“Any place can be dangerous.”

She snorted. “You were just trying to keep me from going with you.”

It was true, but not for the reason she suspected.

The mere thought of the reception she was likely to receive at the police station was enough to make him grind his teeth.

Time for a distraction.

“Hey, the only time I got shot I was in a church.”

His tone was teasing, but her sapphire eyes widened with a genuine horror. “You were shot?”

“A grazing wound from a teenager who was trying to steal the silver candlesticks from the altar.” He hastily minimized the incident. His ma and sisters were still convinced he spent his days dodging bullets. “If I hadn’t startled him he would never have shot.”

She frowned. “Or he might have taken better aim.”

“I’m always careful.”

“No, you’re not,” she muttered, reaching into her purse to pull out her familiar reflective sunglasses. “But I suppose it’s who you are.”

Halting at a stoplight, he watched her slide on the glasses. The sight sent a tangle of emotion through him.

Fury that she had to hide who she was, combined with a sharp, aching need to return her to his apartment where he could protect her from the world.