Page 11 of Delta (Alpha #12)

I just can't get a firm read on Rush. He's charming, sexy, funny, and downright chatty one second, and then he's all broody and distant the next.

Not to mention how casually he dropped those four men.

The display of skill, speed, and marksmanship is damn near unparalleled.

You don't acquire that kind of godlike talent with a gun by going to the range a few times a week, nor by gallivanting around playing gangster, nor do you kill four men without so much as blinking unless you've done it so many times it really is nothing.

And then there’s the tiny little fact that he's hot as fuck . Drool-worthy hot. Fan myself just looking at him, hot. The jawline? The stubble? The eyes? God, the eyes. Right now, he's pensive and broody as he devours his food—and it seems pensive means his eyes are more gray.

Let's talk about his arms, shall we? Because damn .

His arms are pussy-killers. Mine is sitting up and taking notice, that's for sure.

I mean, what is it about a man with big, sexy, strong arms wearing a long-sleeve Henley?

It's fucking sinful. Arms should not be able to ripple inside the sleeves of his shirt.

Yet, there they are, thicker than an overfed anaconda, rippling inside his sleeves with every movement.

I think there's actual drool at the corner of my lip. I bet he has at least sixty-eight abs, too.

Gah. Down girl, I internally yell at my vagina. Get a grip .

But how can anyone expect me to have a grip on my libido when he says things like "art is meant to be appreciated live and in person" in reference to his cock? Plus the exquisitely self-assured way he said it? He knows he's telling the unvarnished truth. Meaning, he has a giant, beautiful cock.

My libido has been on an extended hiatus. Even my usual spicy romantasy books haven't been able to revive the spark lately, and usually my spark is more like an out-of-control wildfire.

Shit, shit, shit. Wrong direction to take the train of thought, Bryn. Good job. Now you're thinking about Zero.

Libido… dead .

The food—hash browns slathered in ketchup, pancakes, sausage links, and cheesy scrambled eggs—is suddenly unpalatable.

Rush notices. "All right?"

I nod but say nothing.

"Wasn't born at night or last night, love. C'mon. Out with it." Maybe it's because I've talked to him more now, but I'm gradually finding it easier to understand him.

“No. It's…nevermind. I'm fine."

He nods, spearing a sausage with his fork and biting a huge chunk off the end, speaking after he's swallowed most of it. "A'right, then. I know better when a woman says she's fine, but you don't wanna talk about it and I ain't the one to push."

I expect him to push, despite what he said, but he doesn’t. He just eats in silence—he ordered two full meals and has polished them both off in the time it's taken me to eat half of my one meal.

I force myself to go back to eating, pushing away thoughts of Zero. "You're really not going to ask?"

"I did. But when a woman says no, I listen. You wanna tell me what's got you giving me those sad puppy eyes, I'd like to hear it. But nah, I'm not gonna ask again."

"There were no sad puppy dog eyes."

He snorts sarcastically, gesturing at me with his fork. "There absolutely was. Big, deep, sad, brown puppy dog eyes. Tragical. Full of sorrow."

I sigh in disgust. "Jerk."

He laughs. "What? Why'm I a jerk? Just pointing out facts. And, I'll point out, showing concern by asking about it."

I sip coffee—which, by the way, is leaps and bounds better than the burned, watery swill you'd get in a similar establishment in the US. "Well, if there is sorrow, it's nothing I want to talk about."

"Fair enough. We’ve all got sorrow about somethin’, haven’t we?

" His own gaze turns brownish-gray and distant, thinking about his own sorrow.

His gaze snaps me to me, and for a second I catch a glimpse of raw, unbridled rage that steals my breath and sends a centipede of fear skittering down my spine.

It's there and gone so fast I almost doubt that I saw it, but the lingering fear is the reminder that I did, in fact, see it. And that I should be careful with the sexy, dangerous Mr. Rush.

"Is Rush your real name?" I ask.

"Yeah." He shrugs a lazy shoulder. "Only name I've ever had."

"It's not short for anything weird?"

This gets me a grin and a laugh, and the sheer beauty of the man when he laughs is almost scary. "Nah, love. What would it be short for?"

"Um," I start, spluttering laugh. "I don't know. Rush…an? Rush…icles?" As in Russian and Rush-ick-leez.

"Rushan, or Rushicles?" His shoulders shake with silent laughter. "Sweetheart, if you ever have kids, leave the naming to your husband."

Husband.

Zero would be my husband now if he were alive.

"Ah, fuck. I've stepped in shit, haven't I?" He peers at me carefully. “How'd he die, then? Your 'usband."

"Fiancé,” I murmur, looking away and blinking hard. "Car accident barely two weeks before the wedding."

Rush covers my hand with one of his—he has W-A-R tattooed across the knuckles of his index, middle, and ring fingers of his right hand, the letters oriented to be read by him rather than a viewer.

"Fuck, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Losing someone like that…

it rips your fuckin' heart out." He's utterly genuine.

You can't fake the look of understanding in his eyes—which are greenish again.

I nod. "You?"

"Me what?"

"Who'd you lose?"

"Everyone." He shoots to his feet, tossing a stack of much-folded euros on the table. "Right back. Gotta have a wazz."

Well, I guess that's the end of that bit of sharing.

But… everyone ?

I go back to the flash of anger I saw. I didn't get the impression that he was angry at me. More… Because of me. I can't pinpoint why I feel that way, but I do.

I toss back the last of my coffee while waiting for Rush to return from the bathroom.

As he's passing the counter where the cash register is, he pauses, scenting the air.

He gets the attention of the woman behind the counter, makes a request. A few moments later, he swaggers to the table with a lidded paper to-go cup from which he sips, looking pleased.

"C'mon, Bryn. That’s us off." He takes a sip, his eyes fixed on me with a small, secretive smirk on his absurdly sensual mouth.

Outside, he pauses on the sidewalk, scanning our surroundings over the top of his paper cup. I follow his gaze, and see nothing—no one suspicious, nothing that sets my hackles on edge.

"This way," he murmurs, setting off in what seems to me to be a random direction.

"Do you know where we're going?" i ask.

He shrugs. "Nah. Just movin' around. Best get out of Berlin quick-like, though. I wasn't exactly subtle, y'know. Rozzer's'll be on us eventually if we don't get scarce."

“Sometimes I have no fucking clue what you're saying," I tell him, arching an eyebrow at him. "Like, what the fuck is rozzers ?"

He snorts, sips, slurping and sighing happily. "Fuzz. Old Bill. Bobbies. Coppers."

I roll my eyes. "You can't just say 'the police'?" I point at his cup. "The coffee there was good, but not that good. You sound like you're about to come."

"Well, that's cuz it ain’t coffee." he shrugs. "Never been a fan of the coppers, so nah, I ain't likely to be polite about what I calls 'em."

I take the cup from him and steal a sip, and it's…hot chocolate? As in, totally standard restaurant-grade cocoa powder. "Um. Okay. That's just hot chocolate."

"Nobody's asked you your opinion on it, 'ave they?" He takes it back from me with narrowed eyes.

“I’m not judging, Rush, I just…" I laugh. "Okay, well, sure. Fine. I'm judging you a little bit. I mean, I was under the impression that you were an adult."

“Yeah, yeah, har-har-har. I'm a grown adult who likes hot cocoa. Fuck off with your judge-y bullshit, Bryn ." He sounds genuinely peeved.

I snort. "Sensitive about it, too."

"My mates used to take the piss outta me for it," he murmurs.

"And yeah, I'm rather preferential to the bog-standard cheap shite.

Right out of the tin with boiling water.

None of those stupid, crunchy fake little marshmallows, neither.

Rather a good mug of cocoa than coffee any day, and tea can fuck right off. "

"An Englishman who hates tea?" I say, faking outrage. "What is this world coming to?"

He frowns at me. "Y'know, I've never once in my life thought of meself as an Englishman. A man from England, sure. Brit, yeah. Englishman? Never. Dunno why, neither." He glances at me sidelong. "You really can't understand me?"

"Sometimes yes, sometimes no. It's the slang, mostly." We're just sort of…strolling down the sidewalk, in no particular hurry. "I'm not an expert, mind you, but this has got to be the most casual getaway ever."

He grins. "This may surprise you, but I've not always operated on the right side of the law."

I clap a hand over my chest. "No! I'm shocked! Shocked , I tell you."

"Yeah, yeah, I know.” A dangerous grin, wicked dimples, twinkling greenish-brown eyes.

“Me? A crook? Nahhh. Point is, in my experience, it's the running around all panicky-like that gets you caught.

Stay calm, act natural, and don't look like you've done nothin' wrong. Like as not you'll get away with it."

"But we're not just evading the police," I point out. "It's the people who kidnapped me that I'm more worried about. I didn't kill anyone." I wince. "Well, that's not exactly true. Maybe I should be worried about the cops, I guess."

He cocks an eyebrow at me. "It's not true that you didn't kill anyone? I think maybe you've left out the good bits of your story, love.”

"How about you get me some real fucking clothes before I freeze my actual tits off and I'll tell you everything."