* * *
A SOFT THUMP pounded in the palm of her uninjured hand. Drugging sleep urged her to keep her eyes closed for a few more minutes of oblivion, but she couldn’t ignore the beard tickling the bridge of her nose anymore. The slow rise and fall of the muscled chest under her urged Camille to open her eyes, and the intoxicating scent of soap and laundry filled her lungs. Finn.
Strong arms secured her against him, and she didn’t dare move. The pads of her fingertips registered every beat of his heart under her hand. Strong, reliable. Safe. Straightening her finger, she traced the outline of his jaw through thick hair. It was softer than she’d imagined. Like the vintage feel of his latest superhero T-shirt. Seconds slipped by, maybe a minute. She didn’t care. The past three days had been filled with nothing but fear, running and pain, but in this moment, with him, it seemed as though nothing could hurt her.
You might see that branding as your greatest failure and have to deal with the repercussions for years to come, but I see them as proof that you’re a survivor. His words from the hospital echoed over and over in her head. She hadn’t given him enough credit. Finn might never understand what it was like to be in her exact position, but he did understand hurt. He understood grief for a life he’d never see again. There was nothing he could do to bring back his mother, but Camille had a choice. She could let the Carver and his protégé, Miles Darien, haunt her for the rest of her life. Or she could take it back, take control again.
She rested her hand on his chest. He stirred under her touch but didn’t wake as she maneuvered out from between his arms and pressed to sit up with her uninjured hand. The comforter he’d dragged over them pooled at her waist, and she set her bare feet on the floor. Aches and bruising pain urged her to climb back in that bed, to rest, but the tingling spreading through her fingers wouldn’t let up. She crossed the short distance to the bathroom and swung the door partially closed behind her, enough to gain access to the small walk-in closet positioned behind it.
There was no hesitation this time. No self-doubt. No images of the Carver’s victims clawing to the surface. They hadn’t survived Jeff’s sick obsession, but she had. As much as she hated the idea that all those women would never get the chance to live out the rest of their lives, she couldn’t waste another moment trying to live one that didn’t exist anymore.
Camille reached for the camera bag Finn had stashed on one of the closet shelves and tugged the zipper around the curve of the canvas. Dim bathroom lighting reflected off the cracked LCD monitor then vanished in an outline of her hand as she pulled the heavy device from its casing. Holding the camera close to her chest, she felt the muscles in her arm immediately engage to counter the familiar and comfortable weight. She exhaled softly, her thumb positioned against the power slide. She turned it on.
The camera almost seemed to sigh with the surge of power, a high-pitched ringing reaching her ears. She clutched one edge of the device in her uninjured hand, then used her opposite hand to remove the cap protecting the lens. The tingling in her fingers surged down her legs, carrying her back into the main room of the safe house. Emergency green lighting cast shadows across the marshal still asleep in the bed. It’d been scientifically proven that observing a moment through a camera lens increased the brain’s chance of forgetting those seconds forever. She stopped at the end of the bed. Right then, she just had to commit the sight of him to memory, as she’d done with so many other important moments throughout her career as a photographer. Her fighter. Her protector. Her hero.
Camille raised the camera and compressed the shutter release button.
The camera clicked with a soft hiss.
Angling the lens down, she studied the LCD monitor, searching for her next breath. One second stretched into the next as her entire nervous system seemed to relax, and a sense of right filled her.
This. This was what she’d missed.
A camera in her hand, the feeling of alignment in her soul. She couldn’t explain the addictive sensations coursing through her veins, but she didn’t have to. She only had to feel, to let the nightmares and pain that’d taken her passion be buried by the roar of newfound excitement. Camille rounded the end of the bed and set one knee near Finn’s feet, then raised the viewfinder to her eye. Another click of the shutter release. Absolutely perfect. The subject of this new wave of freedom cracked open his eyes, a closed-lipped smile stretching his mouth, and her gut clenched with a sudden overwhelming desire. For this moment. For him.
“I see you’ve found your camera.” Interlacing his fingers behind his head, Finn took complete control of her attention. The pins and needles in her hands exploded throughout her whole body at the sight of him so relaxed, so confident. Wide shoulders spread across his pillow, his muscled frame clearly outlined through his latest superhero T-shirt and sweats, and her tongue hit the roof of her mouth. “It’s going to take a lot of editing to make me look like one of your Antarctic landscapes, though.”
“You’re perfect the way you are.” Genuine laughter bubbled from her as she balanced her weight on the edge of the mattress. A thread of thrill wound through her. He’d studied her work. Of course, he had. He’d said so himself. Whenever he took on a new witness-protection assignment, he researched every detail of the person he was protecting in order to see the next threat coming. But knowing she’d been a photographer and making that extra effort to study her work were two different things. She raised her camera and took another shot. And she paused. She hadn’t been a photographer. She was one, would always be one. Because Finn had shown her no matter what happened, photography was part of her, and that was something nobody could take. Not even the Carver. The wound in her shoulder burned with the added weight of her camera, but she pushed it to the back of her mind. No. Her would-be killer didn’t get to be part of this moment. As far as she was concerned, nothing existed outside of this room. It was just her, Finn and her camera. “Editing would only ruin the rawness of what I’m feeling.”
He pushed upright, the heaviness of those brilliant blue eyes never leaving her even though the pain in his side must be gutting him from the inside. “You’re an amazing woman, Camille. I’ve never known anyone to not only survive what you’ve been through, but to also come out on the other side braver and more determined than ever. Not even me.”
Heat flooded up her neck and into her cheeks. She studied the last photo she’d taken in the LCD monitor, not really focusing on anything in particular. A distraction from looking at what she really wanted. Him. The muscles at one corner of her mouth quirked, but one compliment didn’t mean anything. Certainly not him flirting. They had their assigned roles. She was his witness. He was her protector. Anything more wasn’t possible because of his intention never to go through what he had when he’d lost his mom again. He never wanted to love another person so much, because the mere thought of losing them broke something inside. No matter how many times she’d imagined reaching out for him, she wouldn’t. She craved connection, emotional fullness, to counter the loneliness she’d been forced to swallow, and Finnick Reed had made it his single goal in life to never get attached to anyone again. Anything that happened between them would be superficial—a lie—and she’d always need more than that. “Careful, Marshal Reed, you keep buttering me up like that and I’ll start to think you might actually care about me.”
“I do.” He climbed to his knees, the dip in the mattress tugging at her balance. Pulling her closer to him. Her heart jerked in her chest as Finn slowly took the camera from her hands and set it up near her pillow, leaving nothing for her to hide behind but the shirt she’d borrowed from him. Frenzied responsiveness mixed with a hint of panic tightened her throat as he slid one hand under her elbow, then the other. He moved slower than he needed to, giving her the chance to flee, but over the past few days, Finn had become the anchor keeping her in the moment. Not the past. “Of all the witnesses I’ve been assigned to protect, of all the women who’ve marc
hed in and out of my life, I’ve never wanted any of them more than I’ve wanted you. You’re the most honest, determined and strongest woman I’ve met, and the only one who makes me think moving on from what happened to my mother all those years ago is possible. You’re the example I want to live up to, Red, and there’s nothing more I want to do than kiss the hell out of you right now, but if you’re not ready, or you don’t feel the same—”
“I’m ready.” Surprise stole the oxygen from her lungs. She was? Camille lowered her gaze to where his bare palms rested under her elbows, his body heat bleeding through the fabric of her sling, and she let her hand rest against his arm. Instant desire coiled low in her belly. Hell yes, she was ready. Not just for anyone—she was ready for him. Ready to experience this crazed fascination and desire for Finn Reed just once. It wouldn’t last beyond his protection detail, she knew that, but she wouldn’t live the rest of her life wondering what could’ve happened if she’d been more open, more honest about what she wanted.
She pressed her mouth to his, framing his bristled jaw with her uninjured hand, and that same sense of alignment she’d felt with a camera in her hand exploded behind her rib cage. Her soul caught fire deep inside as he swept his tongue past the seam of her lips, and then she was falling.
Chapter Eleven
The smooth skin of Camille’s arm pressed against his uninjured side as she slowly whisked thick chocolate batter into the only mixing bowl he could find in the place. He wasn’t sure how long she’d kissed him—mere minutes, maybe an eternity—before their stomachs had audibly protested against the adrenaline-fueled days they’d fought through. She’d pulled away with a deep laugh he hadn’t been able to get out of his mind, and was now consuming herself with creating a monstrous dessert sure to make them sick.
“I didn’t realize there was such a thing as jumbo brownies.” He cracked another egg into the bowl for her, then tossed the shell into the sink on the other side of the kitchen. The space wasn’t ideal for cooking, but it certainly appeased the heat that’d been building since Camille had taken his photograph. At that moment, poised above him with the camera in her hand, she’d been everything he’d imagined her before the Carver’s attack had stolen her life. She’d been free—happy, even—and he hadn’t been able to look away.
Finn reached for her and brushed a streak of cocoa powder from her upper lip with his index finger. Every second she’d allowed him into her personal space had been worth the pain pulsing in his side. He eyed the empty boxes of baking mix, spots of oil and bits of eggshells discarded on the counter, and at that moment, he felt more anchored than he had his entire life. Uncertainty fled down through his legs, the nightmare of this case instantly forgotten. Because of Camille. Because of the way she’d chosen to get her life back, to push past being a victim and become a survivor stronger than he’d ever imagined. Because of the way she’d taken control from her attackers. Hell, the woman was inspiring. “You had some cocoa powder on your mouth.”
Her smile lit up his insides.
“Any dessert can be labeled jumbo if you’re willing to ignore the amount of sugar in each serving, which I’m great at.” Pinning the bowl between her wrist in the sling and her stomach, she struggled to keep a grip around the ceramic while combining the ingredients. Lean muscle flexed with each scrape of the whisk against the side of the bowl, but her attention had slid to him. Satisfaction tugged at his mouth a split second before the bowl fell out of her hold and hit the counter, flinging brownie batter into the air.
Cold, wet mix plastered to one side of his face and mouth. He closed his eyes as a large glob pancaked into his eyebrow. It dripped down his neck, onto his shirt then hit the counter, but from what he could tell when he’d swiped it away and opened his eyes to assess the damage, he’d gotten the least of it.
Her long, red hair was streaked with lumps of brown semibeaten brownie batter. She swiped her hair out of her face with her wrist then stared up at him with nothing but seriousness in her expression. “How about now? Do I have anything on my face now?”
Laughter bellowed past his lips. He reached out and swiped a splotch dripping from her cheek with his thumb, then brought the batter to his mouth. Sweet chocolate spread across his tongue. Her gaze centered on his movements, her big green-blue eyes wide, and that deep warmth he’d reveled in when she’d kissed him pushed past his control. “Nothing a good shower can’t take care of I’m sure.”
“Is—is that supposed to be an invitation?” Her voice held a note of wonder, as though she hadn’t possibly considered the idea of anything more between them than the single kiss they’d shared, however explosive it might’ve been on his end. The air between them grew thick, and his natural instincts warned him to back away. He hadn’t met anyone like her. Never would. She was unique in her honesty, her creative side, her self-awareness, and with nothing to hide. She’d beaten the odds of survival not once, but three separate times. She was everything he wasn’t and everything he hadn’t realized he’d needed to move on from the past. With Camille, he wouldn’t have a reason to look back. Only forward. And that scared the hell out of him.
But as much as he wanted to give in to his own selfish desire, he wouldn’t push her to offer anything more than she was willing to give up freely. She’d spent the last year afraid for her life, afraid of everyone around her. Reading into interactions, trying to uncover strangers’ true intentions. Paranoid. Of all the people who’d failed her over the last year, he wanted to be the one she could feel comfortable with, to be the one she trusted. No matter the situation, she needed someone she could rely on, and he couldn’t be that for her once this investigation closed. Finn turned into her. “How about I finish up these brownies while you clean up? That way, by the time you’re finished in the shower, we can put on a movie and dig in together.”
“That sounds perfect.” A relieved smile spread her lips thin as she raised her hand to his face and pulled another glob of batter from his beard, then disappeared into the bathroom. The sound of water pelting tile filled his ears.
Within a few minutes, he’d sectioned what was left of the brownie batter, managed to get the baking sheet into the too-small oven and used a kitchen towel to sweep most of the mess into the sink. A humorless laugh rumbled through his chest as he stared at the splotches of dried brownie mix on the back of his hand. Hell. The void in the pit of his gut didn’t seem to hurt as much now. He felt it clear down to... Well, everywhere. Such a simple thing, helping Camille make brownies. Seemed from the time he’d been ten years old he’d been running, avoiding having to think about anything more than the problem right in front of him. He’d hated the thought of not having a case to chase or a fugitive to hunt. Sitting still, in the silence, had been an invitation for everything he hadn’t wanted to think about. And right now, locked inside this safe house while the rest of his team tracked down leads and ran the investigation, there was only Camille. He might not have set out to expand on his baking skills with her today, but he’d been willing. It’d mattered to her, a distraction from the nightmare waiting outside these walls, and he had to admit it’d forced him to focus on something other than the next investigation, the next witness he’d be assigned to protect, the next threat. When was the last time he’d slowed down long enough to enjoy the moment? Or had he ever?
The muffled noise of the shower cut off at the same time the oven timer screamed from behind, and Finn was shoved back into reality. He swept the last of the eggshells into the sink and pulled the hot baking sheet from the oven. Melted chocolate mixed with the aroma of peanut butter in his lungs but failed to erase the hint of lavender clinging to his shirt. He had a feeling nothing would. Finn brushed his palms against his jeans and rounded the counter for the tablet he’d packed in his duffel bag. The bathroom door swung inward, and he slowed. “Hey.”
“My stomach growled the entire time I was in the shower from the smell of the brownies baking.” Head cocked to one side,
she towel-dried her hair as she moved into the main room, careful of her injured shoulder. He found himself captivated by the way her fingers combed through her hair. By the darkness of each water stain spotting one of his older superhero T-shirts along her collarbone and how she’d forgone thick sweats in favor of sleep shorts that showed off the smoothness and bruising along her legs. “I’m starving.”
So was he, and not for the dessert they’d made together.
“I just pulled them out. I was about to find a movie on my tablet.” His fingers curled up into his palms as every cell in his body honed in on the curves of her soft frame beneath his shirt. Finn forced himself to unpack the tablet from his bag—anything to keep his mind off the sudden aching heaviness in his legs. He stood, using every last ounce of strength he had left to unlock the device. “What do you feel like watching?”
“Doesn’t matter. I doubt I’m going to be able to pay much attention to it, anyway, with the promise of chocolate and my very own bodyguard sitting next to me.” Her voice sounded closer than it should have, and he turned to face her. She’d closed the distance between them, the towel still in her hand. It slipped from her fingers, pooling at her feet as she framed his jaw between her hands and pressed her mouth against his. Her kiss was hot, hungry, with desperation in the sweep of her tongue past his lips, and he matched her stroke for stroke in an attempt to cool the raging fire inside. In vain. No matter how much of herself Camille offered to him, it’d never be enough. Not in this lifetime. She pulled back slightly, then whispered against his mouth. “It really is a shame the only place to sit and watch a movie is the bed.”
He dropped to weave his arms behind her knees and back and lifted her into him. Her laugh drowned the pain in his side as he headed toward the kitchen counter. Three steps. Four. She was right. No point in wasting all that hard work. He nodded toward the baking sheet, which had had enough time to cool since he’d pulled it from the oven. “Such a shame.”
The Witness Page 12