The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)

by Cat Sebastian

And now he was looking at her as if she were a cake, if cakes were also religious icons, and she was possessed of a mortifying certainty that she was looking at him in precisely the same deranged manner. It

She had spent a long time—months, the better part of a year—trying very hard not to have any feelings at all, except for anger, which was highly motivating, after all. And now that she no longer had a reason to be so ruthless with herself, all her emotions came rushing back uncomfortably, like sensation returning to a limb. With those feelings came a wave of—of affection, of fondness, of something terribly like fascination with the man beside her. She wanted to shove it far away, back where she had been keeping all the other things she didn’t want to feel, but it was too late for that.

“I want you to be safe all the time,” she went on, “and I know you want the same for me. But that isn’t who we are.”