She leans into my touch, closing her eyes. When she opens them again, they're dark with want.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispers.
"The best ones usually are."
She moves closer, her thigh brushing mine on the couch. The cabin feels smaller, warmer, charged with tension we've been fighting for weeks.
Tomorrow will bring consequences. Questions about who ordered the hit. Decisions about what comes next between us. But tonight, isolated from the rest of the world, we can stop pretending this attraction doesn't exist.
Her hand slides down my chest, careful of my injured shoulder. "We're going to regret this."
"Probably." I pull her closer with my good arm. "But I'm done fighting what I want."
Her lips are an inch from mine when she whispers, "What do you want, Eamon?"
"You," I say, and close the distance between us.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
The fever burnsthrough Eamon like wildfire. One hundred and three degrees, and climbing. I press a cool cloth to his chest, watching sweat bead across his skin as he tosses restlessly on the narrow bed.
"Eamon." I lean over him, my hair brushing his shoulder. "You need to drink something."
His eyes open, unfocused and glassy. "Sorcha?"
"I'm here." I slip my arm behind his neck, helping him sit up. The movement brings us close—his bare chest against my arm, his breath hot on my neck. "Drink."
He takes a few sips before collapsing back. The bullet wound in his shoulder has turned angry red, infection spreading despite my efforts to keep it clean.
"Hurts like hell," he mutters.
I examine the bandage, noting how the fever makes him compliant. Vulnerable. The dangerous enforcer who terrifies half of Boston lies helpless while I tend his wounds.
"I need to clean this again," I tell him, gathering supplies.
He nods weakly. I peel away the soaked bandage, revealing inflamed flesh. His body tenses as I work, removing infected tissue.
"Hold still," I murmur, one hand pressing his chest down while I clean the wound.
"Can't." His breathing grows ragged. "Everything's spinning."
I lean across him to reach the antiseptic, my body covering his. The position puts my breasts against his chest, and even burning with fever, his hands find my waist.
"Sorcha," he whispers, gripping me tighter than necessary.
"Just cleaning the wound," I say, though I don't pull away.
His hands slide up my sides as I work. "You smell good. Like vanilla and something else."
"Gunpowder," I reply without thinking.
He laughs, the sound rough. "Perfect combination."
I apply fresh bandages while his hands roam my back with fevered possessiveness. This man who barely touches anyone clings to me like I'm his anchor.
"Stay close," he says as I finish. "Don't like being alone when the dreams come."
