Page 13 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Dimitri

Beds are for sleeping.

One of the interesting things about this part of the Northeast US is the redundancy of its infrastructure.

There are always a dozen routes that will take you where you want to go.

You can choose to avoid highways and tolls—and toll cameras—and you will still arrive at your final destination.

Perhaps a few hours delayed, but it can be done.

In a straight shot, I could be at the marina in just under two hours from the estate where the wedding was held, but I know that realistically it will take me four.

The rest of the drive is quiet and almost peaceful, and Nicole remains asleep for its entirety, snoring softly.

It is still pitch black when we finally arrive at the parking lot, but light will break before too long.

I am greeted by the sight of crowded rows of gently rocking boats in the pale moonlight.

The dock hosts over a dozen, but it is a simple thing to pick mine out of the crowd of gleaming white yachts because it is the smallest, and the only one made mostly of wood.

I come as often as I can to perform maintenance on the houseboat Luna, so I know that the batteries and gas tank are full and it is stocked with enough food to last two people several days on rationed calories.

That should purchase us enough time for my team to find out what happened at the wedding.

I unbuckle myself and twist in my seat to face Nicole.

When she fell asleep, I was grateful for the respite from her tense energy and my body’s inappropriate reactions.

Now, looking at her, I expect to feel irritated—she is an inconvenient reminder of the mistakes I made tonight—but I feel only a strange sort of tenderness.

I stare for a while, taking full advantage of a stolen moment.

In sleep, her brow that was previously pinched in concern has smoothed. The brackets around her mouth and at the edges of her eyes are gone. Her shoulders move gently with the rhythm of her breath instead of bunching near her ears. She is at peace.

She is so… soft. Serene. Like a watercolor painting with rounded shapes and soothing colors. Looking at her makes me feel pleasant, calm, as if her peace flows into me—or perhaps I am stealing it.

But waking her is necessary. We cannot stay in this car, even to rest for a moment. We need to be on that boat before the sun rises.

Why does the thought of robbing her of her peace make my stomach drop?

I could try to lift her, to carry her to the boat, but the additional hours of losing blood and of being awake and alert have taken their toll. Without this wound, I could manage. But now… if she were to wake up confused and become alarmed, she would fight me, and I would likely drop her.

Unacceptable. She may not be fragile—in a way that is very pleasing to me—but she is precious cargo.

“Nicole,” I say, lifting my voice.

Her only response is a deep inhale and adjusting her head against the seat.

I reach over and place my hand on her thigh.

The fabric of her dress prevents skin-on-skin contact, but I can feel the warmth of her.

I swallow down the urge to ball the silk in my hand and draw it slowly across her bare knee.

I jostle her leg. “Nicole, wake up. ”

With a gasp, she jerks awake, her movements impeded by the seatbelt across her chest. She stares down at it, blinking away the sleep from her eyes, then looks around, out the windows, and finally to me.

Honey. Pure, flowing honey. Sweet amber liquid.

“Dimitri?” Her voice is hoarse from a sleep-dried throat. I know it is what she would sound like, waking up beside me after a long, vigorous night.

Fuck. A jolt of pure energy leaves me stricken and cursing myself. All it took to forget the effect that her eyes on my face and my name on her lips has on me was hiding her body under my coat for a brief ride in the car.

While I am recovering, she asks, “Where are we?”

I unclick my belt and reach for the door handle. “Come.”

The air here is more humid and stickier with salt, and the scent of the ocean is all at once fresh, fishy, and rotten in this protected part of the bay. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore is a familiar melody that reminds me of the freedom and solitude of being on the open water.

I grab my go bag from the trunk, circle back to the front, and hold out my hand to her.

Whether it is due to lingering fear that she will not cooperate, or that it calms me to hold on to her, I cannot say, but pleasure thrums in my veins when she takes my hand for support as she slides out of her seat. As I lock the car, she stops, looking around with a pensive frown.

“What’s next in this getaway—a train and a plane?” she grumbles, dropping my hand and wiping at the smudges of black makeup underneath her eyes.

“You do not like boats?” I guess.

“I’m not a strong swimmer.”

“That is what the boat is for.”

There is a thick second of tension as she assesses me with a small scowl, but it dissolves when her lips twitch at the corners and she spins my jacket on her shoulders to wear it more correctly. “Just tell me you’ve got life jackets, and spare me the dad jokes this time.”

“My father never made that joke,” I protest, frowning.

We stare at each other for a second, and I sense this was another idiom that I did not catch. She tries not to smile, lips clamping down around it, and I relent. At least it appears to amuse her, if not me. “I have life jackets.”

She takes my offered hand again.

We approach the last row of docked boats—me with relief, her with her head down as she chooses each step across the weathered wood dock in her bare feet—and I am pleased to find my boat just as I last left it.

The Luna is mostly wood, with some fiberglass concessions to the corrosive nature of seawater.

It is very much a houseboat designed for one person, and that person really ought to be about half a foot shorter than me.

But Nicole and I should manage for a little while—long enough to get answers to some lingering questions.

I climb the ladder up onto the open deck, help her, then duck down into the top part of the interior cabin.

The wheel and navigation equipment encased in polished brass sit behind the captain’s chair, opposite a seating area built into the wood-paneled walls.

There is a kitchen along the back wall, which is a generous name for what is really no more than a sink, hot plate and unplugged refrigerator.

She says nothing as I lead her down to the sleeping cabin, which sits just below the waterline.

Half is storage for important things—pump, batteries, anchor—and half is the bedroom, which is filled nearly entirely by a foam bed built into the three walls.

Off to the side, there is a small bathroom with a sink, toilet, and a tub/shower with an upright seat.

There is just enough space for both of us to stand together next to the bed, though I am hunched forward.

The Luna has everything I have ever required, but with Nicole here, taking it all in with silent judgment, it suddenly feels curiously lacking .

“You can sleep here.” I gesture to the mattress, unloading my keys and wallet from my pocket onto one of the shelves built into the wooden wall. I keep my phone, and I will sleep with my knives as I normally do.

She sits, bouncing and making a face at the distinct odor of mildew rising from the old bed covering. Cleaning and airing everything out would normally be my first order of business. My priorities are different this time.

She removes my jacket. “Where are you going to sleep?”

“Here,” I say, jerking my chin at the bed, then crossing to the closet and toeing off one of my shoes.

She starts to rise, then thinks better of it, shifting further back to stake her claim in a way that nearly makes me smile. “Can’t you be a gentleman and take that couch up in that cabin up there?”

“I am not a gentleman, and it is my bed,” I point out reasonably.

“But it’s like, a queen at best,” she argues, a twinge of desperation on her tongue. “We’ll… be on top of each other.”

I shrug as though the knowledge does not affect me, but a pounding sensation starts in my head and slowly works its way down my body. “If we were on top of each other, we would not be sleeping.”

“Kind of my point,” she grumbles. “You know what I mean.”

“My safe house, my bed. If you do not wish to sleep next to me, you may sleep on the floor. But you may not sleep up on the couch, where you can easily be seen through the windows.”

It is a bluff, one I hope she does not call. I will not allow her to sleep so close to the exit or out of my sight.

She worries at her bottom lip in indecision, and my hand flexes as I stop myself from grabbing her to put it between my teeth instead.

“I’m not sure how my back would handle a night sleeping on the floor. ”

I nod. I am in excellent physical shape, and my back could handle it, but I will not tell her this. She will be sleeping in this bed, and I am more eager than I care to admit to have her soft warmth pressed against me.

Her eyes cut to me, flashing first with curiosity, and then suspicion. “Just sleeping, right? No funny business.”

There is nothing funny about this raging need to be inside of her, but I understand this saying well enough.

Her reticence is ridiculous, as if there is something particularly arousing about lying next to each other. If I wanted to have her, I would do it on every vaguely flat surface in this safe house, not just the bed. Beds are for sleeping.

“It has been a trying night. We are both exhausted.”

That at least she can agree with. She nods, eyes drooping, then scoots up the mattress.

She settles flat on her back, wedged up against the polished pine paneling with her knees slightly bent, and I am pleased I do not need to tell her she will be the one against the wall.

She is stiff and still as she listens to me move through the room, changing from the dress pants into something more comfortable.

This shirt is a loss, and I can tell the material has fused to the wound.

At least that means it has clotted, and I can deal with it later.

After I flick the light off, I move to settle next to her.

I lay back slowly, rubbing my eyes and then scratching my scar through my hair.

Shoulder to shoulder without enough room between us for a single piece of paper, I am nearly hanging off the side of the bed, and I know she is squished against the wall.

This position will not hold. She will turn in her sleep, and the instant she does, I will too.

My entire body is tense in anticipation.

The silence does not last much longer than a moment or two. I can practically feel the fact that her eyes are wide open. “So… we’re safe?”

“For now.”

“And what’s the plan? ”

“The plan is to sleep.”

“I mean after that.”

I sigh and stretch my free-hanging left arm under my head, seeking a comfortable enough position until I can roll to my side and curl around her softness. “I am working on it.”

“Yeah, okay… fair enough. I guess we’re both pretty exhausted.” As if to prove her point, her voice rounds into a yawn on the last words.

She lies still for a moment, then shifts around, moving her hands from her sides to rest on her stomach, then back to her sides. She shimmies higher onto the pillow, then reaches back to beat at another lump.

“Nicole, go to sleep,” I grit out.

“I’m sorry! I’m uncomfortable. Aren’t you uncomfortable?” she whispers, exasperated.

“Yes.” I feel her vindication at that, so I slyly add, “I normally sleep nude.”

She makes a huffing exhale through her nose, and it makes me smile into the darkness above us. “Go to sleep, Dimitri,” she says tartly.