Page 21 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Dimitri

I do not save things; I break them.

Damn leak. Damn bilge pump. Damn houseboat.

It is very late when I finish repairing the hole, and Nicole is already deeply asleep in the bed. On her back, in the middle.

Instead of trying to fit into the space next to her, I hover and watch. Her breasts strain against the tightly pulled shirt. Her stomach expands underneath the hand resting there. Her eyelashes flutter against golden skin as her eyes rapidly move back and forth beneath the lids.

Exhausted as I am, I believe I could watch her for the rest of the night. Watch over her. The idea stirs me, gripping me tightly and refusing to be shaken away—a fantasy where I am her protector, where the blunt instrument of my size and skill is sharpened with a single purpose. A better purpose.

The temptation to stand watch or to lie down next to her is becoming too great. I turn away, moving towards the stairs, when a high-pitched whimper freezes my blood. “ No .”

I spin, heart thumping hard, and see her shifting restlessly. Her brow is furrowed, and her head thrashes. A broken breath chokes her, nearly waking her, but it shudders out of her lungs with a fearful cry.

A nightmare.

When she rolls onto her side facing the wall and tucks into a shaking fetal position, I do not allow myself another second of debate. I settle behind her, moving closer until there is no space between us .

Almost instantly, the shaking stops. Her whimpers of fear level out into shallow, even breaths, and a deep, primal satisfaction rockets around inside of me.

I place my fingers on her hip, testing, and she shifts backwards until our bodies are nested perfectly.

I barely dare to breathe as I reach over her waist and fill my hand with her softness.

In response, she makes a musical humming noise and draws her legs up, curling around my touch and lacing her fingers through mine.

My heart thuds an unsettled rhythm for her.

I tuck my legs into the space behind hers, unwilling to relinquish even an inch of contact.

Her hair tickles my nose, and her even, deep breathing falls in sync with the gentle rocking of the boat.

She smells exactly as a woman should—faintly floral and clean, sweaty and musky, just a little sweet.

As my cock stirs, I hate myself for how dirty it feels to be getting hard now.

My presence has never calmed anyone before.

I bring her comfort.

Me.

The night we met, I killed a man—possibly two—and I harbor no remorse. My face alone convinces women to leave me alone and men to tread with caution. I am ugly, scarred, often angry, and unpleasant. I have smiled at her only once.

And what is more, she is strong. Capable. Brave. A healer. She knows her place in the world and does not need me for anything. She would soothe herself without me. She would have gotten herself to safety, perhaps even fought off Kyle, if I had not been there.

But she needs me now. And that makes me feel… powerful. Indomitable.

There is something intoxicating about being needed by a woman who needs no one.

I tighten my arm around her, and she sighs softly in her sleep .

I must fall asleep for some small amount of time, because Nicole’s golden eyes haunt my amber-tinted dreams. They gaze up at me, hazy with lust. They dilate in excitement and not fear as I place my hands on her strong, thick body.

They roll back in ecstasy as she clenches around me, time and time again.

When I wake, she is right there, and I am uncertain whether I am still dreaming.

I have her exactly where I want, trapped against the wall; her body is loose and pliable in sleep, and her shirt— my shirt —has bunched around her waist, revealing an expanse of smooth skin and a rounded, supple stomach.

She is the rounding my sharp edges need.

It would be nothing to pull down the top band of both of our pants just enough to place my cock in the valley between her legs. I might not even fuck her at first, and she could simply keep it warm.

I woke hard, but become impossibly harder at the images my mind conjures—of fucking her over and over, filling her up, then holding her closely enough that I would not slip out.

She would fight me, but she would take it, and then she would want it desperately.

I would make her crave me as much as I crave her.

I want her body as much as I need her understanding expressions and molten gaze.

Such is my need that my fingers twitch against her stomach, sliding down to the waistband of her pants, slipping inside, and beginning to move it out of my way.

And then my phone buzzes.

My personal line is the only one that makes any sound at all, so I know it must be James or Wesley, checking in. I go rigid, remembering suddenly where I am and what is at stake.

Reclaiming control is a battle, and it takes every scrap of my hard-won resolve to leave her warmth. Slowly and quietly, so I do not wake her, I untangle my arm from around her and rise from the bed .

Moving out onto the deck, I appraise the clouds that look heavy with rain as I unlock my phone. The message from Wesley is unimportant—an update that is the absence of progress—but I am grateful for it. The interruption, the distance now… It is the slap in the face I needed.

I scrub my scar and run an agitated hand through my hair, scraping the wrong way against the growth.

This is disconcerting. The way I want her is disconcerting . I might actually have fucked her in her sleep. In the past, it was my way to take a soft, willing body next to me when I woke wanting. Back when I let Aleksandr convince me that everything was mine for taking.

But Nicole is not a Bratva whore to be passed around, ignored, or overpowered. And those women… they were powerless. A fucking tragedy. Any man who puts a woman in that position deserves castration and a painful death.

Morning is just breaking over the water, but the wind is shifting.

When I check the weather application on my phone, I see the clouds moving on the radar and curse to myself.

Not just rain, then—a storm is coming. And the damn battery-powered mechanical winch for the anchor is acting up, so this means I must pull it using the crank on the front of the deck.

I am so consumed by my thoughts that I lose my balance briefly when a large wave rocks the boat aggressively.

I fall into the handle of the lever, and hiss as a sharp pull of pain lances my side.

I right myself, then check, and curse again roundly.

One of my stitches has pulled through the skin, and there is fresh blood welling from the broken scab.

Grumbling, I finish pulling up the anchor and move into my captain’s chair to find a better location for us to wait out the storm. I will not return to the marina, but there are several coves nearby that offer better protection than our current location.

As I start the engine, I hear Nicole shut the bathroom door, and my foul mood sinks even lower .

Nicole.

Nicole, who is so easy to talk to that I use more words than I have in a decade.

Nicole, who looks so good in my clothes.

Nicole, who listened to the sorry tale of my youth with compassion and kindness and did not make me feel pitied.

Nicole, who is so curious and thoughtful.

Nicole, whose husky voice passes right through skin and muscle to vibrate deep around my bones. It thickens my blood and stiffens my cock.

Nicole, who is pleased that I was not killed.

Nicole… who will leave Ulysses to protect herself.

I have been lying to myself, thinking perhaps there was some outcome of this clusterfuck— as James would say—that meant I could have her. But she is not for me. She will return to her small, safe, civilian life. She will leave Ulysses and all its dangers behind.

She wants to settle down somewhere. She wants a life without looking over her shoulder for men with guns coming after her for whatever mess Kyle involved her in.

Looking over my shoulder for men with guns is my life.

After an hour’s journey north and back west towards shore, I find the protected area I was searching for. It is private, but not privately owned. The water here is deep enough that we will hit nothing and shallow enough that the current should not toss us about too badly.

After manually lowering the anchor, I am too preoccupied to read, so I grab the large dartboard from the storage container on the deck, hang it on its hook against the cab, get into place, and palm two of my knives.

I warm up with a few easy throws, feeling out the soreness in my side, then begin challenging myself. One eye closed. Both eyes closed. Poorly gripped handle. From behind on a spin. From crouching. From one leg, balancing on a rocking boat .

Center of the bull’s eye every time.

I know the instant I am not alone, and not just due to how the wood creaks underfoot and the boat dips slightly from the shifting of weight. I am so aware of her. My subconscious seeks her through layers of wood and glass and water.

She has come to the open window of the cabin and watches from the safety inside.

So smart. So careful. She would not be so foolish as to approach and risk startling a man holding and throwing a knife.

Her eyes are wide, and the sunlight glinting through heavy, dark clouds glitters off the water and reflects in them, even through the salt-streaked plexiglass.

“You are,” she swallows, glancing between me and the target about two meters away, “so good at that.”

When I throw another, I tell myself it is to empty my hand and not to show off. “Da.”

“The noise it makes is very… unexpected. Kind of violent. I guess all of it is, but in a graceful way. Like a dance, almost.”

Violent.

I turn the word over in my head again and again until it becomes meaningless, effortlessly tossing another knife into the bullseye, this time with my left hand.

Violent.

An observation and a judgment—cautious and respectful with an undercurrent of fear.