Page 14 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

The embodiment of violence.

As the sleep fog gradually lifts, I lie still and relaxed with my eyes closed until one thing—one remembered, urgent thing—shakes me fully awake.

Dimitri.

Dimitri is in this bed with me.

Even though I was on my back when I closed my eyes, I never fall asleep and wake up in the same position.

I’m a toss-and-turner, and I always end up on my side.

So it’s not really a surprise to wake up with the wood-paneled wall about an inch from my nose, but I genuinely also expect to find a thick arm around my waist and a burning body pressed into mine from behind.

There’s a fluttering deep in my lower stomach at the thought.

One bed.

I don’t have much time for reading, but I know what a trope is.

So when I give my torso an experimental shift and there’s enough freedom of movement that I can feel cool air behind me, relief and disappointment rise simultaneously to swirl together in a confusing mishmash that makes me shake my head at myself as I roll onto my back to sit up.

What’s wrong with me? It’s good that he didn’t take advantage of me in my sleep. Why does it feel like a rejection? I can’t possibly be silly enough to be disappointed that he did what I asked him to and kept it PG.

Well, I can, but I shouldn’t be.

With a deep sigh, I swing my legs off the bed.

I hiss as the bottoms of my feet touch the polished wood floor, reminding me of all the sharp sticks and rocks I found during our trek through the woods.

The satin fabric of my dress winds between my legs, creating static sparks against the blanket that cause an eruption of full-body goosebumps.

They worsen as the chill of the room settles against my bare skin.

The only illumination is coming from the cabin above—spilling down the small staircase and through the open door—and it’s got a filtered, gray quality to it. Though the dim light casts the room in shadows of varying darkness, it’s enough to see that I’m in here alone. The emptiness is acute.

I grab the small beaded bag that contains my glasses and contraband cell phone, and wrap my arms around myself as I hobble across the room towards the light switch.

Unprepared for the sudden rocking motion of the boat, I nearly fall into the wall as the door swings open.

I grip the banister with my free hand and lean forward enough to see up into the top part of the boat.

Everything is wood and brass, creating a distinctly old-timey vibe. Vintage lanterns sway from hooks in the ceiling, and the steering wheel has spokes with rounded knobs. I half expect to see a ruffled, tri-corner captain’s hat.

This place is… uh… rustic. Charming? Cozy?

“Ah!” I hear, followed by a string of angry-sounding Russian.

“Dimitri?” I ask, knocking on what I now know is the bathroom door—you can just tell when someone’s voice is echoing off hard surfaces like tile, glass, and porcelain. “Everything okay?”

“Da.” It’s curt.

Go away, Mom.

Okaaay. I turn away from the bathroom. I have to pee, but I’m also thirsty, so I move upstairs.

The tiny kitchen area is directly to the right, and I make a beeline right for the sink.

I let the water run long enough to confirm it looks and smells clean, then wash my hands obsessively and drink directly from the faucet.

Hands now clean, I remove my contacts, toss them in the trash, and place my glasses on my face, sighing in relief as the world comes back into focus and the sandpaper feeling from blinking dissipates.

I need some food and a shower, not necessarily in that order. I don’t love the idea of putting dirty underwear back on, so maybe I should wash them and hang them to dry before I do anything else… but first, maybe a little more natural light would be good. The cabin could do with being aired out…

I turn to the windows, only to freeze.

All I see is water.

What the fuck? Where’s the dock? Where are all the other boats? Where’s the land?

Panic squeezes in my chest.

I storm back down the stairs as the boat rocks again, bouncing off the walls on both sides in my uncoordinated urgency. I knock on the bathroom door. “Dimitri?”

“What?” His tone is even more curt this time, if possible, and I grimace.

“Where are we?”

“How would you like me to answer that? Five klicks northeast of the marina you do not know the location of?” His words are mocking, but his tone is more factual and angry than derisive.

With a stifled sigh, I rub my eyes. Frustrating as it is, he’s not technically wrong—that wasn’t the question I wanted answered, anyway. “I mean,” I grit out, “I thought we were staying in the marina.”

“I never said this. ”

The infuriated noise almost slips out this time. “ Why aren’t we in the marina?”

“Open water is safer.”

Ugh. Fine. I sort of suspected there was a reason we went to a houseboat and not a motel or something, even though I don’t like that he obviously moved us while I was sleeping.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I mutter, just a little petulantly.

I’m not expecting the door to open immediately. And I’m really not expecting to be confronted by a thoroughly pissed-off expression and a long expanse of naked torso. Dimitri is holding a large pad of gauze to his side with one hand, his elbow awkwardly angled backwards.

My eyes drop. I can’t help it. He has dark, curly chest hair that covers sculpted pecs and trails down his abs. They aren’t super defined, but they are pronounced, and covered in a layer of protective fat that I know means his strength is functional and not vanity.

It’s clear that he’s a warrior. He’s been through— holy shit —a lot.

His torso and arms are littered with scars of various ages.

There are more long slashes, like the one on his face, some circular masses that must be old bullet wounds, and one spray of tiny punctures on his stomach that makes me wince because it must have come from a shotgun.

It couldn’t have been fun to dig out all that shot.

There are also several small, thin slivers in key places, like near his kidneys, that make me think he was shanked.

Did he do time?

My suspicion grows when I see the crude stick and poke prison-style tattoo on his right pec, a series of tally marks. I’m not sure what 12 means to him. The number of times he’s been incarcerated? The number of people he’s slept with? The number of people he’s killed?

I’m not sure I want to know.

I glance up, realize I’ve been gawking for a solid few seconds, and proceed to make it worse by being totally unable to look away from his face. He’s too tall to stand upright down here, so his ducked head casts his face in some shadow, but it’s not enough to hide him.

In dim lighting and at night, his dark features were stark, almost sharp.

Now, I realize he’s not handsome, exactly—not classically, anyway, with that scar and permanent scowl—despite the angularity around the corners of his jaw.

But he’s all power and strength, and there’s something magnetic about that.

The fury creasing his face melts into mild irritation under my curious exploration. He’s watching me absorb his features, tense and wary. There’s an expectation of rejection in his look that I’m not sure he’s aware of, and it squeezes my heart.

But those eyes… For the first time since we’ve met, there’s finally enough light to really see them.

I feel like I’m falling into the coldest, lightest, bluest sky.

They’re ice chips. Frozen rivers in winter.

Frankly, they’re as eerie as they are beautiful and make me feel like he’s got built-in x-ray vision.

They fit him, because they make my stomach flop—and not in a 100% pleasant way.

He’s the embodiment of violence.

I swallow and take a deep breath. Focus, Nicole.

He’s injured, so I should help—he’ll be a lot more useful to me if he doesn’t bleed out or get an infection and die.

It’s not like I know how to drive a boat.

And in that vein, I can make myself useful to him.

Who would hurt the person giving them medical care?

“Do you want me to take a look at that?”

His jaw clenches as he assesses me. Can he see through my words to the underlying intent?

“I have a bunch of certifications for wound care—I can even do stitches, if you need them,” I offer. Geez, what is this, a job interview?

“Why would you do this for me? ”

Just like in the car, his suspicion is strangely soothing. It makes me feel more like we’re in this together; he’s not stealing me away on a boat to chop me into little pieces and toss me in the water for the sharks.

“You saved me first,” I shrug. “One good turn deserves another.”

He searches my face for something. I’m not sure if he finds what he’s looking for, but he nods after a moment. “Very well. But only because I cannot reach it properly.”

Despite his obvious reticence, it still feels like a win. I’ll take it.

“Um, first, could I…” I gesture to the toilet.

With a glance over his shoulder, he silently collects the first aid kit that was spread out over the sink counter and squeezes past me.

So focused on the impending relief, I realize embarrassingly late that I need to move out of his way, and he brushes my shoulder with his chest. Cheeks heating, I shut the door.

When I emerge, I see he has moved aside the musty covers and is sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning away from the bandage against his side that stays stuck even though he’s using both hands to type on his phone.

His black sweatpants are slung low to give me access, and the angle calls some muscles to the surface of his skin that I’ve only seen in my anatomy diagrams.