Rogue - Michele Mannon Page 0,19

I scoop up the ski mask. Parisians are known for high fashion but this is taking it to the extreme because technically, it’s still spring. A few days remain in May before an unofficial summer kicks in. I toss the mask in the air for a spell. Spin it around on my finger. Run my fingers over the cotton material then turn it inside out.

The mask falls from my grasp onto the floor.

My fingers tighten around the strand of hair I’ve plucked from inside. I hold it up to the light.

Blond . . . BLOND . . . “No. Now way.”

My gasp seems to echo around the room, accompanied by the sound of the crank of the old doorknob as it turns.

5

Shelby

“You want me to throw a knife at your head?” I ask, and just like that, a week’s worth of manning up and acting like I belong here at Hell Camp, convincing myself that I’m going to make it through the daily obstacle of horrors, is shot to high hell in a handbasket.

Jaxson shrugs, then favors me with one of his lazy smiles. I swear it feels as if the sun’s rays puckered up then warmly kissed every blessed inch of my body.

When God created beautiful men, he must have waved Jaxson forward and said, “Cut the line, you stud.” His dirty-blond hair is cropped on the sides with lighter finger-length highlights on the top, giving him this laid-back, rumpled bed-head vibe. I imagine weaving my fingers through it, grabbing hold of him by the hair, and drawing his lips to me. His eyes are light blue like mine. Except his shimmer with a constant glimmer of mischief, which captures your attention and sets your thoughts on the edge of naughty-land. He possesses a lightness of spirit mixed with a spark of purpose that only he holds the secret to. Naughty eyes.

I’m overwhelmed by him.

He knows it, too. His smirk seems to be as big, and as blatantly suggestive, as the impressive package I felt under his shorts that first week.

Is this only a game to him? Is it because he’s a man with enormous sexual appetites and little ol’ lucky me, being the solo female in the group, is his one hope at some fun fuckery? Or is simply entertainment for him, the How Many Times Can I Unsettle Kylie show?

But knives raise the game to an entirely different level.

In my first week of Hell Camp, I shot pistols at a gun range, improved my time in completing a grueling obstacle course, with an impossible wall I’d never have gotten over without a helpful hand from Jaxson, whizzed through ten-mile runs—running is my thing—and managed to give as good as I got in hand-to-hand combat, at which I’m surprisingly capable even against these hard-core professionals so long as weapons aren’t involved. At the end of the day, the men assigned to each obstacle hand Hayden their scorecards. Points are tallied, then posted on the wall by the refreshment table inside the gym. I hover somewhere at the lower end of the pack. Not surprising, given how these men are much more experienced in military-like training. Each night, I return home to Mama and Madelyn, tired, weary, exhilarated. And, truth be told, feeling a little guilty for not being around as much.

Now training has changed from being an individual task to a team effort. And Jaxson has shifted from being someone constantly next to me, taunting me, touching me, keeping up with me, or falling behind simply to train with me, to being this and being my teammate.

“Leave it to you to fix things with Hayden? We’re not talking about a leaky faucet, Jaxson. Jesus, don’t you take anything seriously? My ability with knives is limited to buttering buns and carving off slices of pot roast. Not throwing them at targets. Not throwing them at a live mark. No. You’re out of your bleeding mind. I won’t do it.”

As I speak, he draws in closer. Crowding my space. Making me far too aware of him. I draw in a breath and am rewarded with the tantalizing smell of his skin. He has this spicy, woodsy, rugged, outdoorsman scent, like pepper tree bark, if such a thing exists. Yet what makes my toes curl is that sweet citrusy undernote, like summertime lemonade, that makes me want to sip and lick at his skin . I wiggle my upturned toes—yep, it happens every time I’m near him.

“All this talk about buttered