distance himself yet. He thought he’d be able to tell, but not while Riley was unconscious. The wait was nerve-wracking.

“Come on, man,” he muttered, rougher than intended after the long silence. “Wake up. You’re giving me an ulcer here.”

Riley didn’t answer, stubborn bastard that he was, but Misha could’ve sworn he looked healthier than before. The paleness had faded from his cheeks and his breathing was calm and regular, definitely deeper than it had been in the car. He looked like he was sleeping, relaxed and peaceful, and Misha edged forward again, his fingers twitching with the need to touch.

“You scared the crap outta me,” he admitted quietly, moving from the chair to the edge of the bed, Riley’s body tilting subtly toward Misha when the mattress dipped. “For a minute there, I thought you—”

He didn’t say it, swallowed it down with the sudden lump in his throat.

“You could’ve come to me, Riley,” he whispered. “You asshole. Did you really believe I’d hurt you? Did you think I could?”

Of course he had. Riley had no reason to put his faith in a man who’d sneaked into his affections using lies and deception, and then had kept on lying until he’d gotten caught. A man who murdered people for a living.

For someone with Riley’s background, this wasn’t a gray area. Misha was a liar and a killer. A very bad guy working for a very powerful crime syndicate and Riley had barged into the wrong room at the wrong time and become a witness. No, Misha couldn’t blame him for running. He understood why Riley had taken on overwhelming odds with an empty gun rather than call Misha.

And yet, stupidly, it still hurt.

Misha sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. He was a mess: tired, gritty, and headachy; hollowed-out with worry and apprehension. The movies always made love look so easy, differences and misunderstandings a minor glitch brushed off after a short, dramatic interlude that set the course for happily ever after. What a crock of shit.

“Wake up, Rye,” he muttered. “We gotta talk. Just open your eyes, okay?”

He reached out, needing contact, the reassurance of Riley’s warm skin against his. It had been his privilege, once, to be allowed this kind of intimacy. To reach out and have Riley move into his touch, no matter when

or where. To indulge in breaching Riley’s personal space and be welcomed where everybody else was denied. Misha had missed this freedom to connect more than he liked to admit. He’d loved to caress Riley’s face above all else, completely hooked on the sensuality of exploring those gorgeously masculine features with his fingertips, warm skin with the faintest hint of stubble, the satiny curve of Riley’s mouth right there, addictive.