Wicked Lies: A Dark Mission Novella by Karina Cooper

Stronger than he looked. He led the way through the dark, toward the outlines of a desk inset into the far wall.
    Cozy.
    Danny rubbed the back of his head. “Naomi gave me this address.”
    “Of course she did.” Disgust tempered with a fond sort of patience arrowed straight through Danny’s heart.
    His shoulders straightened. “Jonas—”
    “Stop,” he cut in, quick. Too quick. And he hadn’t met Danny’s eyes once. He hooked his crutches against the desk, powered on the monitor with a touch, and otherwise did everything but look at him. “I already explained—”
    “Bullshit.”
    Now he looked up. His eyes narrowed behind his crooked glasses. “You kiss your grandmother with that mouth?”
    “I do a lot of things with this mouth,” Danny told him, walking closer. Closer still. He watched the realization unfold across the man’s features; watched deliberate distance slide into surprise, then into a wariness cut with something Danny hoped to hell he didn’t imagine.
    Heat. Need.
    Memory.
    Jonas’s grip on the desk was white-knuckled.
    Danny stopped inches away. Just enough to feel the man’s body heat soak into his; just enough to smell soap and warmth and the faintly coppery scent of the energy boosters Jonas liked so much on his breath.
    He didn’t touch. Not yet.
    Screw right and gratitude and fear.
    This was right. And he was grateful, and he was most definitely afraid. But this was right .
    “You ran,” he said.
    Jonas’s mouth flattened to a hard line. “I got out before your crush turned—” When Danny’s hand covered Jonas’s mouth, he stiffened. His eyes widened, flecks of green and brown flashing.
    “I’m not going to let you poison this.” Danny reached up with his free hand. Hooked the bridge of his glasses with one finger and slid them off Jonas’s face.
    He looked too young without them. His thin features were boyishly handsome, all intriguing angles and sculpted jawline.
    His lips brushed against Danny’s palm as he took a sharp breath.
    “I don’t care what you say,” Danny said, determination turning his voice into something hard. Something not to be argued with. Oh, yeah, he could get used to this. “I want a chance, Jonas. A real chance at this. At you. That’s all I’m asking.” Tossing the glasses on the desk beside the worn keyboard, he removed his hand and pushed Jonas down into his chair.
    It creaked.
    Jonas caught his wrist. His grip bit, but the heat in his eyes, staining his cheeks, told Danny it wasn’t about anger. At least, not entirely. “Don’t,” he warned. “You’re like twelve years old.”
    Danny snorted. “Close. I’m twenty-four.”
    “Jesus, I’m eight years older than you!”
    “I like a man with experience.”
    Jonas swallowed hard enough to hear. To see. “Danny, you can’t fix me.”
    Laughter bubbled out of his chest on a tide of disbelief. Of genuine amusement. It washed away the fear, the anxiety. Left only raw determination.
    And a want so bad, he’d never get over it. “Fix you?” he repeated, incredulous. He sank to his knees in front of the chair, elbowed Jonas’s legs wide so he could tuck between them. He braced both hands against the back of the chair, trapping him, entangling him, and leaned in close enough to drown in his mottled green eyes. “I don’t even know what you think is wrong with you. I don’t know where you come from, how you grew up. Why you’re so scared.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to fix you , Jonas. I want a shot at being your one.”
    Those eyes widened. Panic.
    Danny let him. Watched as thought after thought flitted in those depths, rippled underneath his fractured mask. He smiled, slow and wicked, as Jonas’s gaze slid to his mouth.
    “I’m not asking for forever,” he continued huskily. “But you can bet your ass I’ll spend every second with you trying to prove that forever’s exactly what you want.”
    “Danny, your grandmother—”
    “This isn’t a corporation,”