Because she could never be Callindra Howe again. She couldn’t even be a woman with a real life.
Slowly, she worked her lips up Sean’s length, looking through her lashes at his flushed face. His chest heaved. His eyes slid closed. Gratification spread across his face.
“Oh, lovely . . .” His voice sounded low and faint. He stumbled on his feet.
Callie jumped to steady him, then eased him onto the bed. He tumbled back, head on her pillow, his breath evening out.
Her time with him was almost over.
“I love you,” he breathed out.
She leaned over him, drinking in his strong, relaxed features, firm lips, hard jaw. She cupped his face. Such a beautiful man . . .
And he’d never really know how much she loved him in return. Since he was moments from sleep, Sean wouldn’t remember anything she said now.
He’d be hurt by her abrupt departure. Callie caressed his face, tears forming and falling. She should be leaving right now, throwing on her dark clothes and shimmying outside, but the thought of tearing herself away voluntarily from this bed—from him—was ripping her chest wide open and splintering her heart.
“So tired . . .” He frowned.
“I know. I’m sorry.” Callie wished she could leave behind a piece of herself for him. Maybe then, she could find the will to move on, knowing she’d done what she could to ease his hurt.
An idea flashed across her brain, and she leapt up, digging frantically in Sean’s pants until she found his phone. Then she shook him awake.
“Wha . . . ?”
Callie thrust his phone into his hands. “Unlock this for me. I need to make a call. My cell is dead.”
“Told you. Charge it.” He fought to peer at the screen and tap out the code.
On the third try, he finally managed. The phone clicked. His arm dropped to his side as deep slumber overtook him.
And that was it. Her last waking words to him were a fib. Leaving him a recording on his phone was the only way she could think to leave him the truth in her heart.
As she flipped through his apps, looking for a place to leave him a video message, she frowned when she stumbled over a picture of herself. But not a current one. It was the yearbook photo she’d taken her sophomore year, just before her family’s murder had forced her to flee Chicago and all she’d ever known.
Sean knew her identity. The thought beat through her brain. He knew. Her fingers went numb. She dropped the phone.
Every word he’d ever uttered to her was a lie.
Oh God.
Sucking in a terrified breath, Callie leapt away from him and fell to the floor. She fumbled through his pants. Was he a cop? An assassin? A private investigator? His trousers revealed nothing—no driver’s license, no wallet, no badge. She crawled over the carpet until she reached his coat. After patting it twice, she encountered a hard, cold lump. Folding back the fabric, she found the inside pocket and peeked down. A gun.
Callie bit back a shriek. Her heart beat a fast, staccato rhythm. Terror laced her veins with icy fire.
He knew who she was and he carried a gun. His plea for her to come away with him? He’d probably meant to kill her once he’d lured her away from Thorpe and Dominion. Whoever had shot her father and sister had come after her more than once to finish the job, but they’d never gotten close to her. This time, they’d found her weakness—her f**king foolish heart.
Sean Kirkpatrick, the beautiful Scot she’d stupidly fallen for, was trying to kill her. She bit back tears of betrayal and ran.
***
THORPE ended the call with Axel, stunned and blinking. A chill worked through his body.
Callie . . .
She was locked in her room with that son of a bitch.
Tearing down the hall, he rounded the corner, calling security as he ran and grabbing Lance, who still stood sentry in the hall.