Page 13 of Felix (4 Seats #2)

Chapter Thirteen

Felix Greyson

I ’m settled on the edge of the bed, my eyes locked on Aurora’s still form.

She’s out cold, a serene expression plastered on her face that never sees the light of day when she’s awake.

It’s been hours—no, a whole damn day—and she’s just lying there, not moving, not eating.

I can’t help but watch her chest rise and fall with each breath, the ink on her skin shifting subtly with the motion.

My gut twists. I need her eyes to open again.

“Darling…” I murmur, nudging her shoulder gently, “… you gotta eat something.” But she mumbles and turns away, her long, black hair cascading over the pillow like a spill of ink in the moonlight.

“Fuck this,” I mutter under my breath, standing up to pace the room. My mind is racing, trying to piece together her silence and refusal to let life in. I lean against the wall, a cold surface for my overheated skin, and pull out my phone.

The email from Angel is right where I left it, glaring at me with its bold subject line.

With a swipe, I’m staring down the barrel of her past, the medical records that read like a goddamn horror story.

STD tests, broken bones, and a terminated pregnancy, all before she was even twenty. My jaw clenches so hard it creaks.

Jesus Christ , I think, swiping through the data.

The masked men, the kidnapping, the rape, the newspaper clippings, all of it matches up with the woman gracing my bed.

But the broken bones, they’re a fucking enigma.

What kind of hell did she walk through from fifteen to nineteen?

And after that? Nothing. It’s like she vanished off the map only to reappear in my world, carrying all her shadows with her.

“Who did this to you, Aurora?” I whisper, knowing she won’t answer even if she could hear me. The frustration coils in my gut like barbed wire, ready to tear through flesh.

I shove the phone back into my pocket and run a hand through my hair.

It’s time to focus on the now, to deal with the woman who’s somehow become the eye of my hurricane.

I can’t let the past—hers or mine—fuck up what we have.

She’s safe with me, safer than she’s ever been.

And I’ll kill anyone who tries to take that away from her.

“Fuck,” I hiss, realising I’ve been clenching my fists so tight my nails are digging into my palms. Blood and violence are always just under the surface with me, a constant thrumming beneath my skin. But with her, it’s different.

Nothing will happen to you, Aurora. Not while I’m breathing, I vow—the promise as solid and deadly as a blade pressed to flesh. I’ll keep her safe, even from her own demons, because she’s mine, and I don’t give up what’s mine.

The next day, I wake up to an empty bed except for me, the sheets cold where Aurora should be. A prickle of unease skates down my spine as I throw off the covers and stalk through the silent house. My gut tells me she hasn’t left—she wouldn’t dare—but I need eyes on her to kill the edge of panic.

My footsteps echo hollowly in the cavernous space until I hit the patio doors.

There she is, slicing through the pool’s water with an athlete’s grace, each stroke a silent defiance.

I never took a dip in it myself. It always seemed like a waste of time.

But watching her, it’s like she’s reclaiming something stolen from her.

“Morning,” I call out, leaning against the doorframe. “Breakfast?”

Without missing a beat, she flips around for another lap, her voice trailing behind her. “Yes.”

I watch a moment longer, raking my gaze over the fluid lines of her body as she swims, then pivot back inside.

The kitchen is sterile, unused to domestic shit like cooking.

Today, it’s different. I’m making breakfast for Aurora.

It’s a simple task, but it feels significant like I’m weaving another thread connecting us.

Yoghurt and fresh fruit are what she’ll eat and will probably be all she’ll eat. I fix two bowls, hands steady despite the turmoil that’s been churning since yesterday. She’s got secrets, sure, but so do I. We’re a pair.

I carry the bowls out just as she’s hauling herself out of the pool, water cascading off her in rivulets. My eyes latch onto her like I’m starved, and my body reacts hard and insistent. The sight of her, glistening and strong, stokes a fire in my core.

“Fuck, Aurora,” I growl, setting down the bowls with a clatter. “I want you. Now.”

She doesn’t even flinch at my words, wraps a towel around herself, and plucks up her bowl. Her retreat has a purpose to it, and I follow because that’s what predators do—they chase.

“Hey,” I bark after her, but she doesn’t stop. I trail into our bedroom, frustration and want gnawing at me. She’s right there and still miles away.

The shower hisses on, steam fogging up the glass. My eyes are locked on her silhouette, every curve amplified by my imagination. This game she’s playing is torture, and I don’t like games, not unless I make the rules.

“Dammit, Aurora,” I mutter under my breath, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal with nowhere to put its energy. She’s a puzzle wrapped in an enigma, tucked inside a fucking conundrum. And I’m itching to unravel her, layer by tantalising layer.

I lean against the wall beside the shower, arms crossed, waiting for her to emerge. She’s a ghost haunting me, and I’m a man possessed. Whatever it takes, I’ll break through those walls she’s built.

Steam curls around her, a cloak of secrecy I can’t penetrate.

I walk over and slump into the chair in the corner, elbows on knees, hands clasped together, watching her blurred form move behind the frosted glass.

Water cascades down her body, hiding and revealing in equal measure.

It’s a dance of light and shadow that drives me fucking insane.

“Talk to me, Aurora,” I demand softly, my voice barely carrying over the rushing water. “Tell me what’s eating at you.” But she won’t, and it claws at my insides like a caged beast desperate for release.

She’s silent as always, a statue under the torrent, her long, dark hair plastered against her back. The tattoos that map out her pain and survival ripple with each drop, telling stories she refuses to speak aloud.

I stand, restless, moving closer until the heat from the shower seeps into my skin. Why won’t she let me in? What keeps her locked up tighter than a damn vault?

The shower cuts off abruptly, and she steps out, reaching for a towel with an economy of motion that speaks of her constant vigilance.

I’m on her before she can finish wrapping herself up, embracing her still-wet body from behind.

She goes rigid like a deer caught in the headlights, and I curse inwardly.

“Easy, easy,” I murmur, my tone softer now, less confrontational. “It’s just me.”

Her breath hitches, and I feel her pulse racing under my fingertips. I hate that she’s scared, even if it’s not of me. Or is it? That thought burns like acid in my veins.

“Look at me, Aurora,” I coax, but she doesn’t respond. Stubborn woman.

“Fuck,” I exhale, holding her closer, my warmth seeping into her bones. “I’m not going to hurt you. Ever. You’re safe with me.”

A shudder runs through her, and it’s like I can feel every wound she’s ever received, bleeding afresh. Her tears come silently, the way rain falls on a windowpane—there but somehow distant.

“Shit,” I whisper, because what else can I say? I’m an assassin, not a poet. My life is blood and shadows, not comforting words or gentle reassurances. Yet here I am, trying to be what she needs.

“Let it out,” I tell her, my voice barely audible over my heart’s thumping. “I’ve got you, darling. I’ve got you.” I say as I turn her around to face me.

She sobs then, a sound that rips right through me. And I stand there, holding her, feeling like the most powerful and powerless man in the world all at once.

I press my lips against the damp trail her tears left, salty and sorrowful on my tongue. She flinches but then steadies under my touch.

“Today’s a workday for me.” I grunt, stepping back to look at her. “And you’re coming with me. You need to see what I do.”

Aurora’s dark eyes lift to meet mine, a flicker of curiosity warring with the shadows in their depths. “Okay,” she whispers, her voice hoarse from crying or maybe from disuse.

“Get dressed,” I order, my tone leaving no room for argument.

I watch her move, a silent ballet of vulnerability and strength, as she selects an outfit.

It’s nothing fancy, just a plain black pant and blouse set, but damn, it hugs her curves in all the right places.

All she has are the clothes from the hotel.

Her own will arrive when Angel has her things shipped to us.

Maybe I should take her shopping? My gaze lingers a little too long, desire coiling tight in my gut .

“Stop staring,” she snaps without turning around.

“Can’t help it,” I shoot back, the corner of my mouth twitching up despite the tension coiling inside me like barbed wire. “You’re sexy as hell.”

I tear my eyes away, but images of her body fresh from the shower keep flashing in my mind. My dick twitches in agreement, and I shove the thoughts aside. This isn’t the time.

“Ready?” I ask when she’s done.

She nods, and we head out. The silence between us is thick, charged with unsaid words and unasked questions. I want to break it, to force her to talk and understand why she’s pulled away, but I bite my tongue instead.

“First stop, money pick-up,” I mutter more to myself than her as we reach my car. “And then money drop-off.”

The drive is quick, the city blurring past us in a smudge of grey and grime. We pull up to a nondescript building, and I glance over at Aurora, trying to gauge her reaction. “Remember, darling, you’re safe with me.”

“Always reassuring coming from an assassin,” she retorts dryly, but there’s no real heat behind her words.

“Smart-ass.” I smirk but feel a pang of something else—pride? Yeah, pride sounds about right. She’s still got fire in her despite everything.

We get out of the car, and I lead her inside. My hand hovers near the small of her back, not quite touching. Protection or possession? Maybe both.