Chapter 22 · The Counter-Signature

His thumb was still hooked under my fingers when he said it.

"Berth nine. Three years ago. You put sixteen stitches in my shoulder on a fish table."

Rain slammed the study glass like handfuls of gravel.

The bloodstained intake slip sat between us under the desk lamp. My hand was right beside it, pinned under his calloused palm. He wasn't crushing my bones. He just wasn't letting go. That quiet, immovable grip that told me I could yank all I wanted and the answer was still no.

"You're confusing me with somebody else," I said.

"I don't confuse people."

"Then you've got a bad memory and a worse temper." I tried to wrench back. Nothing moved. "Let go of me, Owen."

"Look at me."

"I'm looking at your desk."

"Ruth."

I looked.

Owen Hale at two in the morning wasn't the man who sat at the end of the dining table. The suit jacket was gone. His white sleeves were shoved past his elbows, exposing thick forearms and the pale, jagged bullet track cutting through dark hair. Shadow on his jaw. Eyes flat, steady, and utterly terrifying.

He had all night.