Page 18 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

There’s no gentleness to him, but a gentle man has never gotten my heart racing.

As Dimitri moves us to another location, I have to go below deck where the rocking is less intense. A particularly large wave tilts the boat, and I can hear the chess set hitting the floor above me while I ride it out with my head between my legs. Well, I guess that game is finished.

My stomach is so unsettled. I don’t think water travel is for me.

After he anchors us, I spend the rest of the day on the deck, reading the only book on the boat in English— Anna Karenina , of all things—and sunning myself.

The sunset is spectacular, and Dimitri joins me for some of it, sitting quietly near me.

We watch the fading pastels settling into the horizon together in silence.

Then he leaves me a tidy pile of jerky and protein bars like the gym bro fairy and goes back inside to change batteries and mess with the water pump or something else I didn’t quite listen to.

Maybe it’s cowardly of me, but I’m grateful for the distance.

I thought talking to him would help pass the time, but I severely underestimated the effect he has on me.

I’d be an idiot to try to pretend like I didn’t realize how attracted I was— am, still am—to him. Even once he dropped the charming villain act and showed me the man he is under the suit and blood, it didn’t make a difference to my throbbing pulse .

There’s no gentleness to him, but a gentle man has never gotten my heart racing like this.

And while I’m not completely immune to those flashes of sour nervousness and anxiety from being at the receiving end of that fierce, icy gaze, they just get mixed up with the other emotions I feel under the weight of it.

When I talk, he’s so zeroed in that it’s like the world around us doesn’t exist. I found myself voicing thoughts I normally wouldn’t share—like all that stuff about people deserving death that makes me cringe now, remembering how unguarded I was—just so he would stay so locked in.

The way he gives me every ounce of his focus makes me feel…

important, and interesting, and heated .

In fact, I’m burning.

And it’s only partly because of his… unexpected physical reaction while I was examining him. It’s happened before—people with penises sometimes experience difficulty controlling what is genuinely a very natural response to being touched.

And if I’m letting myself be a little less clinical about it… Lord, he’s big. Everywhere. I don’t need to see his penis face to face to know that. But I’ve thought about it. A lot.

After I've dutifully choked down a chalky protein bar, I head in for the night and stake my territory on the bed, buzzing with nervousness and excitement as I wait for him to join me.

Long moments pass, and I hear him shuffling around in the top part of the cabin.

Eventually, he turns off the remaining lights, and darkness blankets me.

He’s not coming down?

As quietly as I can, I sneak off the mattress and poke my head up the stairs. He’s sitting upright on the built-in couch where we played chess, arms crossed and chin tucked against his chest.

I balk. What happened to my safe house, my bed ? Disappointment rises in my chest, swift and hot, but I try to tell myself I’m being ridiculous .

Briefly, I consider waking him and offering to switch places, then decide to be selfish for once so I can starfish. Maybe we can trade off nights.

The next morning, we choreograph a careful dance of avoidance.

He studies a map while I eat a breakfast of more protein that turns my stomach even more sour than it was.

I wash it down with as much water as I can manage.

Between the anti-nausea drugs, the lack of fiber and all the stress, my digestion is all out of whack.

I’m trying not to think too much about whatever is still making its way out of my body, because worrying doesn’t accomplish much more than adding to the stomach ache.

If it’s drugs, we’ve got it covered. If it’s something else… we’ll see, I guess.

I grab my bleak Russian book while he fiddles with the radio, tuning it to various frequencies and listening intently to what mostly sounds like static to me. I try to read, but I’m so hyperaware of him looming in the tiny cabin next to me, I can’t concentrate.

Just as I’ve had enough and stand to head out onto the deck, the tiny tapping noises start—drizzle against windows.

Guess the weather isn’t going to let me be a coward about this.

With a sigh, I close the book and set it down on the table. He ignores me.

“We should start over. Start a new game,” I add, rushing to clarify when his head comes up. I gesture to the box still sitting out on the table, like it’s waiting for us to finish our confrontation. “Lower stakes. Something friendlier.”

“You do not want to answer my questions?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow at me.

There it is. That’s the reminder. We’re just two people on the run from danger, who hardly know or trust each other.

“No, I will. But maybe we can try to keep it a little more lighthearted?” I suggest with an encouraging smile .

He spins the dial on the radio so the noise cuts out with a little click, regarding me with what I assume is interest, based on his tone. “How do you propose we lower the stakes?”

I shrug. “Maybe we can pass on answers we don’t want to give, and there’s no, like, grand prize for winning. Just bragging rights. I really don’t want to learn how to fish, even though I’m bored. I don’t think it’s possible for me to be bored enough to want to learn how to fish.”

My silly little joke doesn’t land how I hoped it would, but his eyes flash with interest all the same. “Very well. I accept your terms.”

I take the same seat as yesterday, watching as he takes his. “You want to go first this time?” I offer in the spirit of a fresh start.

“You need the advantage,” he counters, almost playfully.

I chuckle. “Hey, if you want to give it up, far be it for me to turn it down.”

I move my first pawn. He repeats his move from yesterday, and I take his first pawn again.

“When’s your birthday?”

He grimaces. “Pass.”

Whoa. I figured that one was an easy one.

I thought I was starting us off gently. “What?” I ask.

The question slips out, and I can’t control the accompanying smile until he scowls at me.

I tuck my lips in and tamp down until the urge passes, then ask, “Okay, then at least tell me why. Is it for safety—because it can be used to identify you or something?”

Without responding, he moves another piece. For a few long seconds I think he isn’t going to respond at all, and disappointment swells—this isn’t starting out well at all—but then he says, “It is not important. You Americans are so eager to celebrate things.”

“You don’t tell people your birthday because you don’t want a birthday party?”

“Is that not a preferable outcome to telling people and expecting a celebration that never comes? ”

My smile dries up. I doubt he’ll expand on that, but now I won’t be able to stop wondering if he keeps his birthday a secret because he doesn’t think people want to celebrate him.

I suppose, depending on the people in his life, that could be true.

If his team is full of big, scary guys like him, they might not be the type to blow up balloons for a friend.

He takes the next piece. “Tell me about the life you will return to—your job and your family. Do you have friends? A lover?”

A lover? Who calls them that?

If I tell him I have a lover, will he back off?

Do I want him to?

“Well, actually, I’m new to the area. I’m a travel nurse, so I move around a lot.

I started at St. Luke’s earlier in the week, and I just moved into my new place.

I don’t really have any local friends yet.

” My stomach twists as I speak. Should I even be saying this?

Should I be revealing just how alone I really am?

“And your family?”

“Obviously a lot of them were at the wedding, but that was mostly extended family that I only see for the big three—weddings, reunions and funerals. My immediate family situation is… a little complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“We’re just not very close.”

“You said your father was dead. Did something happen?” His voice lowers, and his hand stills. A deep line forms between his brows.

My stomach flips. I know it’s probably not how he means it, but he almost sounds like he’s ready to go to battle on my behalf. It’s so damn endearing.

I shrug and grab the black pawn I took and run my fingertips over the smooth edges because I don’t think I can look at him when I talk about this. It isn’t light and breezy, but in Dimitri’s defense, he didn’t know he was picking at old scabs .

I know I could skip the question, but I won’t, just to prove that it’s not that big of a deal.

“It wasn’t some big single trauma or anything, more like a lifetime of small, additive cuts.”

Normally, I gloss over this shit. It’s third-date conversation material at best, and most guys let it go there—either because they don’t really care, or they sense I don’t want to talk about it so they let me off the hook. Not Dimitri.

“This does not answer my question. If you want good answers from me, you should give them as well.”

“You love turning my words against me!” I exclaim, a little frustrated with the experience.

He’s not deterred. “Explain.”

I sigh. If he wants it, he can have the sob story.

“My dad was a doctor, and my mom fell in love with the idea of him, and then immediately out of love with the reality of his ego and narcissism. They divorced when I was little. My dad was around—in the picture for weekends and holidays—but then he died of liver disease when I was 13. After the divorce, Mom dated around for a while, met another guy, started another family, and prioritized her new life. Meanwhile, I put myself through school and moved away. We’re not close. ”