Nora held her hand over her glass as Braden tried to pour more wine. She was already a little buzzed, already too comfortable in the apartment, across the table from the one man who set her soul on fire.

More dangerous territory.

“Let’s talk about the transcripts,” she said.

She’d read in silence while he made dinner, had looked up only when he’d set the table, delicious and comforting smells wafting from the kitchen into the living room. He’d poured the wine and they’d eaten — roast chicken, garlic potatoes, a salad — mostly in silence. The weight of their opposing views was ever-present, but it wasn’t the only thing between them. It wasn’t even the heaviest thing.

That honor went to the heat that still coursed through her body when he looked at her, the feeling she saw in his eyes.

He sat back in his chair, nodded. “Okay.”

“None of it will hold up in court,” she said.

“Of course.”

She wasn’t surprised by his casual dismissal. He hadn’t left the Bureau to try criminals to court, to bring dirty agents to internal affairs. His methods would be off-the-books now.

“But you’re sure it’s legit.”

“I’m sure,” he said.

She trusted him, and she knew he wouldn’t tell her more about his methods for obtaining the comms records anyway.

“So Shields is telling someone outside the Bureau about the surveillance warrants on Kalashnik’s people.”

“That’s what it looks like to us,” he said.

She wouldn’t question his use of the pronoun. “The transcripts obviously point to someone else at the Bureau who’s in on the action. Do you have a line on who that might be?”

“Not yet,” Braden said. “We’re hoping Shields will lead the way.”

“During the meet-up at Comic Con next week, you mean?”

A flash of surprise showed on his face before he buttoned it up. “What makes you say that?”

“Bayside Corridor? July 20th?” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not an amateur.”

“Ouch,” he said. “I’d never heard of Bayside Corridor before this.”

She smiled, was surprised to find that it felt sincere, that for the first time since they’d been shot at outside Braden’s apartment, it felt right to be with him. She didn’t have the energy to figure out what it meant. What it said about her own state of mind.

“Relax,” she said. “I hadn't heard of it either. Google is your friend.”

He chuckled, and the sound of it sent a pulse of heat to her center. “I see you haven’t lost your sarcasm.”

“It’s the only thing keeping me sane.” It came out more serious than she intended, and she finished the last of her wine, trying to distract herself from the power of his eyes.

“Why is that, Nora?” His voice was soft and low.

She turned the glass in her hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“That’s easy,” he said. “You’re having dinner. And wine.”

She met his gaze. “You know what I mean.”

He nodded. “I do.”

“I should have gone to Alvarez the minute we got back from Washington.”

“But you didn’t,” he said.

“No.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” she said.

“I’m not sure I do.”

She thought about it, searched her mind for the right words. For something that was honest. “I guess I’m still trying to figure out if it’s because I know you’re right about the Bureau, or because I’m in love with you.”

She hadn’t meant to say it so plainly. Had intended to say something about her feelings for him confusing things for her.

But there it was: the truth.

Everything you need to know is right in front of you.

And there he was.

He held her eyes before getting to his feet, slowly closing the distance between them. He stopped next to her chair, held out his hand. She drew in a breath, bracing herself for his touch, for the onslaught of feeling that would only further cloud her judgement.

He pulled her to her feet, tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “I’m hoping it’s the latter,” he said, “because I’m in love with you, too, Nora Murphy. Have been since you first beat me on that obstacle course at Quantico.”

She shouldn’t have been thrilled by his words. Shouldn’t have wanted him to take her to bed as badly as she did.

He lowered his head, touched his lips gently to hers, stroked her mouth open with his tongue. Then she was unfolding all over again, the last two weeks falling away like a bad dream as he held her chin, opened her mouth wider for him.

Her body was alight, flames tripping along the surface of her skin, only hinting at the fire already smoldering at her center. When he finally pulled away she could hardly breathe.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice rough and full of anguish. “Tell me what you want from me.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her body to his. “I want you to take me to bed.”

He swept her into his arms, carried her through the apartment toward a fate she no longer had the will to fight.