Audition - Skye Warren, Amelia Wilde Page 0,21

in the grate. I have it low enough so the temperature remains comfortable. A set of wide double doors stands open, revealing a bed with white sheets and a fluffy white bedspread.

“This is nice,” Bethany says on an exhale that almost, almost, becomes a sigh.

“Nicer than that shithole you came from. And there’s no need to keep the windows open. They sprang for central air conditioning and everything.”

Her glance is a slice. A little cut. “You seem personally offended by my apartment.”

“I’m personally offended by your total disregard for your own safety. Especially while you’re getting threats. Coming here is the first good decision you’ve made.”

She lets out a short laugh. “I wouldn’t call it a good decision.”

“Better than staying there, where anyone can reach you. When did you start getting the letters? Why didn’t you at least call Liam when you got it?”

Bethany blinks at the abrupt change in topic, but I need to focus on something other than the way she looks in her heather-gray hoodie and leggings. Best to focus on the job at hand. Which is not, unfortunately, stripping that hoodie off to reveal soft, brown skin. “The letters are personal,” she says flatly. “I told you that.”

“And I told you that was bullshit.”

A slight narrowing of her eyes. “They are personal.” The fire in her eyes burns low in my belly. “And you’re overreacting anyway. They’re nothing.”

“I’m not sure you’re the best judge of that.”

Bethany’s eyes flick away, her breasts rising underneath the hoodie. Her grip tightens on the bag slung over her shoulder. It’s ripped. Frayed. Ancient. “And what makes you a better judge? The fact that you got a job at North Security?”

“The fact that I’m head of operations at North Security, more like. I’m not some grunt who needs to kiss the boss’s ass.”

The hint of a smile chases across her lips and disappears. “Don’t pretend that protecting me is going to impress anybody else.”

“It should, since you’re making it a damn nightmare.”

“Have you seen the stuff Samantha gets?” she demands, referring to the world-class violinist my brother’s with. “You stand on a stage, people are going to have an opinion about that. If I was worried about what some nutjob thinks, I could never put on my ballet shoes. Is that what you want?”

There’s a pang in my chest. It’s where a heart would be, if I had one. We go to battle every day, but we have guns and knives and armor. She has cardboard soles and silk ribbons. She goes to battle every day armed with absolutely nothing.

Bethany stretches her arms over her head. This has the effect of making the hoodie rise until I can see a line of brown flesh. My palms ache to touch it. To run my fingertips over it. To push up the shirt underneath the hoodie until every last bit of her is open to the air. Open to me. But I don’t. Instead, I watch her fake a yawn.

Message received. “Sleep if you want.”

She drops her arms to her sides, eyes searching mine. “You don’t go to bed this early.”

“If you think I’m going to bed, sweetheart, you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Where are you going to be, then?” Her voice is shaky, as if I might crawl into bed with her. Maybe demand payment for my protection with her pretty little body.

I gesture to the sofa. “Right here.”

“All night?”

“All night.” There are extra bedrooms upstairs. Sometimes Liam and Samantha use them when they visit. It’s more comfortable here than the official North Security safe house. There’s no way I’d be on a different floor from Bethany. I’m not even going to be more than fifteen feet from her. I’m right outside the door, in this parlor outside the bedroom, like an overmuscled guard dog keeping intruders away.

She gives me a long look. I expect more arguments, so it’s a surprise when she turns to flit into the bedroom, light on her feet. My heart thrashes against my rib cage. It wants to follow her. The last blaze of the sunset burns itself out against the windowpanes, and I sit on the sofa.

Every sound hangs against the backdrop of her, in my space. Running the water in the bathroom. On, off, on, and then off again. Is she naked? I’m imagining the strong, subtle curves of her body, sleek muscle beneath dark skin, the dusky color of her nipples and her pussy. Why can’t I stop fucking thinking about it? The soft click of the