Rising Darkness (Game of Shadows #1)(67)

“There’s something wrong with that argument.” She pressed a fist to her forehead, trying to clear her head. “I can’t think what it is right at the moment, but there is.”

“You are in control of this gun,” he told her, clearly unmoved by her shaky reaction. “It is not in control of you. If you are not in control of yourself, you might slip and kill or injure someone, but that is true of the scalpel as well. If you have the nerve to wield a scalpel, you can shoot this gun. Now, take the safety off. Hold it like I showed you.”

His calm, relentless attitude was actually helping, not hurting. She slipped off the safety and held the gun two handed, like he had demonstrated earlier. The muscles in her arms and shoulders bunched with tension.

He walked behind her and pointed over her shoulder. She sighted along the length of his arm to where his finger pointed. “Aim for that low-hanging branch. Remember, pull the trigger. Don’t yank at it.”

She pulled the trigger. The gun spat a bullet. Startling wildly, she dropped it.

Silence. She dared to peek over her shoulder at him. He had raised his eyebrows, and his mouth was compressed in a suppressed smile. “You surprised me. I thought it would take at least another ten more minutes to talk you into doing that.”

“I hate you,” she grumbled.

He spun her around so fast she didn’t even have time to squeak. Snaking an arm around her neck, he gave her a savage kiss that was so scorching, she felt as if all of her clothes might burn off of her body. Electricity sizzled through her nerves. By the time he was finished, she was shaking all over and unabashedly clinging to him, with her fingers tangled in his short, fine hair. His mouth left hers with obvious reluctance, and as she sagged limply in his hold, he studied her with a heavy-lidded, predatory look.

She licked her lips. Even her mouth was shaking. “Okay, you caught me. I was kidding. I don’t hate you.”

He circled her throat with one hand. It was such a barbaric gesture, and he did it so tenderly. She looked up into the dangerous face of her best friend in the entire world.

And she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would never hurt her, would always defend her. Always.

Something invisible hovered in the air, some decision in his edged expression. He looked like a tiger might, as it walked up to a fence and considered whether or not it might be time to jump over to freedom. Then the tiger retreated, slowly, and he smiled again as he let her go.

Even when he was no longer touching her, the skin at her neck burned with the memory of the warmth from his hand.

He said, “Pick the gun up, and this time, really aim for that branch.”

Flooded with sensation and blind with desire, she managed to pick the gun up again and not shoot herself in the foot.

After a half an hour, he called a halt to the lesson. Not, she thought, because he had any pity on her, but because the shadows were lengthening too much on the branches to use them for proper target practice.

And not that she had managed to hit any of the branches, anyway. As wrung out as if they had been boxing the entire time, she clicked on the safety and tried to hand the gun to him, but he wouldn’t take it.

“I did good, didn’t I?” she said brightly.

The tiger that lived behind his face laughed. “Come on,” he said. “I promised you supper.”

Back inside, the cabin was almost as cold as it was outside. Teeth chattering, she went to build a new fire in the fireplace while he pulled out various ingredients from the fridge and set to work.

While she waited for the flames to take hold, she wandered into the bathroom and checked her clothes that were still draped on the hot water heater. They were dry, and the material felt stiff and rough. She shook them out and folded them, then set them on the dresser. Then she went back to squat in front of the bright new fire, holding her chilled fingers to the growing warmth.

With his dark head bent to the prosaic task of chopping vegetables, he said, “Tell me your long, stupid story.”

It took her a few heartbeats to connect to what he meant. When she remembered, she said, “Justin and I both went to Notre Dame. I wasn’t very good at making friends, but he has—had—a knack for it. It’s a big university, but he still seemed to know everybody on campus. One of his friends was a roommate of mine, and she introduced us. We really liked each other, you know. We made each other laugh.” She paused, but he remained silent. She bit her lip. “The truth of the matter is, he was g*y and couldn’t admit to it, and I wasn’t interested in anybody. We each pretended to be something we weren’t, and we tried to create a life that would look right. Look normal. I thought if I acted normal for long enough, I might eventually start feeling normal. You know, fake it till you make it.”

She looked over her shoulder. Michael’s expression revealed nothing but calm interest. He asked, “How long were you married?”

“Just under two years. It was a relief when we called it quits.” What was he thinking? His reaction, or rather the lack of one, threw her off balance. Did he . . . care? She asked hesitantly, “Have you had a serious relationship?”

His gaze lifted from his task briefly. “No.”

Unsure about the undertones in his too-brief reply or in that clear, wry look, and not confident about asking him anything further, she stood and walked over to the table. He had blanched the asparagus and sautéed the mushrooms. Now, he beat several eggs in a large metal bowl while butter melted in a skillet over low heat.