Page 22 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

But I cannot blame her. It has been some time since I saw them as anything other than an extension of myself, but I suppose to someone like her, knives have inherent violence to them. Throwing them is an act of violence . Being good at it makes me a violent person.

“Well, I won’t bother you when you’re training, but I wanted to show you this,” she says, holding something small and metallic between her thumb and forefinger. “It’s… um… it’s what Kyle made me swallow. ”

I squint at it, but give up after a few seconds. It is too small to see from here. So, I collect my knives, sheathe them, and climb down into the cabin.

Still gripping it daintily, she places it in the center of my open palm. I squint again. “It is…”

“A USB drive,” she remarks with a little confused laugh.

“Been a while since I’ve used one of those.

There’s usually a whole bin of ‘em in some forgotten drawer of the nurse’s station.

Everyone uses cloud-based storage these days, but no one wants to be the person who threw away something that might be useful in some obsolete way. ”

Nothing on the boat can read a USB drive, and even if there were something that could, I would want Wesley to look it over before I did anything with it. It might contain anything, and he is the only person I know equipped to handle this variety of anything .

“What do you think it is?” she asks as I slide it into my pocket.

“A USB drive.”

She rolls her eyes. “What do you think is on it?”

“I could not begin to guess.”

My eyes cut to her as she moves back across the cabin and settles onto the couch, unwrapping one of our last protein bars. “Well, I, for one, would love to—” She freezes with it halfway lifted to her mouth. “Are you bleeding?”

I glance down, following her eyes, and see a small droplet of red against the white cotton. Fuck. I had forgotten. I should have changed so she would not see it.

“It is nothing.”

Setting down the bar, her brows snap together. “What happened?”

Her ire takes me aback enough that I admit, “Just a ripped stitch. Do not concern yourself. ”

“Let me see,” she orders in the tone of someone who expects no disagreement. She stands, wiping her hands on her pants, and moves towards me.

I glare at her and cross my arms. Who does she think she is? She will not order me about this way.

Her demeanor shifts in response to my defiance. “May I see?” she corrects herself, slowly reaching for the hem of my shirt.

My jaw clicks as I grind it down, suddenly angry for small, inane reasons—like why it was such a simple matter for her to pivot and ask nicely. She must have no pride to swallow.

Refusing her now feels childish, so I jerk the shirt out of the way, not wishing to put myself through feeling the brush of her fingers against my stomach. I am strung too tightly.

Her frown deepens as she hunches down. “Jesus, what have you been doing? You’re supposed to be taking it easy, but you’ve got one ripped and another almost pulled through.”

“My life cannot stop to coddle an injury.”

She huffs an irritated breath and glances up. “Yeah, well, if you rip another stitch, I’m going to be pissed.”

“They are my stitches to rip,” I grumble, letting my shirt fall and backing away a step.

“Actually,” she counters archly, planting her hands on her hips, “they’re my stitches. And they’re an aid, not a fix. They help while your body heals itself; they aren’t armor that means you get to do whatever you want. Show the work I did a little more respect than that, please.”

In spite of myself, my lips twitch in concert with my cock.

Her defiance sets my pulse racing. The way she casually expects control makes me want to back her against the wall, silence her with my lips, force a finger deep inside what I am certain is a pretty little pink-brown cunt, and change that attitude for her.

I want to wrap a thick hand around her smooth throat until the only words that escape her lips are “yes” and “Dimitri.”

Fuck.

I scrub at my hair, leaning into the harsh motion and scratching at my scar.

“Will you let me fix the deeper one?” she asks.

“Very well,” I sigh, preceding her down into the lower cabin.

Though I busy myself with removing my shirt and getting into a comfortable position, resting back on my hands, my eyes remain locked on her as she retrieves the kit. She seems irritated now, and I wonder if it is in response to my own irritation.

She pulls on some latex gloves and moves to sit next to me. “Lay back.”

“No.”

This earns me another irritated noise. “Fine,” she says through a baring of teeth that is not a smile. She stands, spins, and digs an elbow into the mattress to lower herself. Her breast brushes my knee before I understand what she means to do. She grabs my thigh to catch herself.

Instantly, my cock is hard again, throbbing and straining against my pants. All that building tension and desire from when I woke slams back into me at once. The angle… seeing her like this, on her knees before me… “Do not—” I choke out.

She pauses in the act of kneeling, one foot still flat on the floor. Her eyes are round with surprise at my barked order. “What? Why, what’s wrong?”

“Do not get on your knees,” I grind out, shifting away so she will not get between my spread legs.

“Why?” she repeats, truly confused. She puts her other knee down, and I scowl at her.

Infuriating, obstinate woman, testing my self-control! Does she have no sense of self-preservation after all ?

The picture she paints is one I recognize from my dreams. She is wearing far more clothing now, but the raging fire of desire this position creates is no less urgent.

I grip the blanket and sheets so hard that I hear a small tearing noise. “Because I am barely holding back, my med .”

“H-holding back… from what?” she squeaks.

“What do you think?” I growl. My hips buck, just a little, drawing her attention to the bulge in my pants. It swells a little more, as if the weight of her eyes is a physicality equal to the touch of her hand.

She sits back on her feet, digesting that, then shivers.

When her eyes meet mine again, they are shining with need through dilated pupils.

Suddenly, there is nothing clinical in how she gazes up at me through her lashes.

It is subservient, and torturous, and powerful and sexual and…

right. She presses her thighs tighter together, and I can see her nipples pebble against tight, abrasive cotton.

“So don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t hold back.”

Desire rages around the tentative flash of hope. She wants it. She wants me.

Perhaps… perhaps this can be enough. One encounter. One release. One brief moment of heat to hold in my chest and revisit when the night is cold and lonely.

I reach for her chin, gripping it firmly between my thumb and index finger. She allows me to lift her head a fraction, and her mouth falls open as her brows slant up in a pleading expression. My nerves are singing, my pulse is pounding, and there is a roaring in my ears.

The temptation of such an invitation is too great.

My hand cups along her cheek towards the corner of her mouth.

Dipping just inside, I rest the pad of my thumb on the point of her bottom canine tooth and pull her lower jaw down.

I open her, testing her, seeing what she will let me do.

She touches the tip of my thumb with her tongue, tasting me, and a guttural noise escapes my throat .

My chest is heaving as if I were running at full speed.

I pull my thumb from her mouth and slide my hand down to circle the front of her throat.

She goes rigid in my grip, then her chin lifts, stretching her neck, making more room for a palm that looks massive against the fragile column of her throat.

Her pulse races under my fingertips. Her eyes beg me—a hungry, wild expression—though it is unclear exactly what for.

I tighten my grip. She whimpers, and the sound snaps me out of my obsessive focus. A noise of surprise, of trepidation, of desire, and of torment. It is perfect. She is perfect—she would be. I can tell.

She would give, would allow me to take, would take me so well…

And then how would I ever be able to stop at just one night?

I shake my head, stopping myself and pulling away. “I will not. I cannot,” I say, and my voice is raw and raspy.

Her sharp inhale is a shard of ice through my stomach. “Why?” she whispers, as if a louder acknowledgment might injure her pride.

The question makes me angry because I am asking myself the exact same thing. She sits there still on her knees, blithe to my suffering. I grab my shirt and stand, momentarily forgetting where I am. I hit my head on the low ceiling. Her expression of sympathy is like a rude, cold splash of water.

I am a murderer . I do not need her sympathy. I do not need a soft woman to care for me. Soft things do not last long in my hard world.

“You want to know why?” I hiss, and I can hear that my voice has become fierce.

She shifts back, sitting hard on her plush ass in response to my tone, eyes wide. The edge of her apprehension is sharp against my heart, reopening the stitches there that she did not know she sewed.

My hands curl into fists that shake. “Because I am a violent man, Nicole. I will not make love to you. I will not have sex with you. I will fuck you, and I will take everything. I will ruin you. Do you understand? The way I want you is violent. I am violent. ”

I see it again—the flash of fear. She is aroused, yes, but she is afraid of me. Good. She should be. Satisfaction twists with shame until I cannot tell which I feel and who it is directed at, me or her.

“I am not a good person. I do not save things like you do; I break them.”

I turn away, then I hear her shaky voice. “You saved me .”

She is not listening. I need to leave before I…

“I’m not afraid of you, Dimitri.”

I send her a disdainful look. Seconds ago, I saw her fear. “You are a liar.”

Shock and hurt weave through her features, but she schools them.

I need to leave.

“I will tend to my own wound,” I growl, jerking the gauze from her hands, shooting up the stairs, and slamming the door closed after me.