Page 23 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

Ruin me?

Another terrified tear slips from beneath my squeezed-shut eyelids as the boat lurches in a massive wave, tossing me against the paneled wall behind the tub.

I thought the bathroom would feel safer—the presence of the toilet was an added bonus when I lost my lunch—but it’s starting to feel hopelessly claustrophobic in here.

Every time I open my eyes, I see everything swaying in the flickering lantern light, and it makes my stomach roil.

Every time I close my eyes, I have visions of water spilling in from under the door, and it makes my chest tighten in panic.

The skin of my knuckles is stretched white and bloodless as I hold on to the handlebar in the wall and the sink counter for dear life.

Even anchored like that, I still feel like I’m being thrown around—the sea is the cat and I’m the dead bird it’s playing with.

Something heavy falls above me, making me flinch. The boards around me creak ominously, and every beat of a wave against the side has me on terrified edge, thinking that will be the one that makes the wood buckle from the force.

I’m going to drown.

Why did I let him take me on a boat? I told him I’m not a strong swimmer!

Where the hell are those life jackets he promised me? I need one, but I’m not sure I have the willpower to leave the bathroom. And I’ll be damned if I call out to him for help .

Those cold, cold eyes haunt me just as much as the terrified, helpless, intrusive thoughts of drowning.

Now is not the time to relive that breathtaking, heart-wrenching moment of being on the sharpest precipice of desire and having him yank it all away.

When he put his thumb in my mouth and his hand around my throat, I almost melted on the spot.

I was like a lit firework of need, ready to explode at any second.

Every part of my body ached for him, and he just… turned away.

It doesn’t matter how badly we both seemed to want it, how the air crackled around us with electricity. He decided for both of us. He won’t let us find out.

Why? Because he’s violent. Because, according to him, he’d ruin me.

Ruin me.

Ruin me? What does that even mean?

What would it be like to be ruined by that man? I’m not sure I don’t want to find out.

The boat heaves, shaking as it comes back to center, and I bite my lip to contain the whimper. Fuck this bathroom. I’m not drowning next to a toilet. Maybe the life jackets are in the space above the clothes in the closet.

I shoot out of my seat and grab the door and wall, making my way out into the bedroom area.

I try to keep my center of gravity low and keep ahold of sturdy things as I cross the room, but there’s another sharp tilt and I go flying onto the bed.

It’s mostly a soft landing, but my forehead crashes into the wall and the contents of the shelf above my head come flying off.

A pile of books blankets me, bruising and poking, and I cry out.

What starts as a simple pain response morphs into something greater, and soon I’m choking on heavy, wet, fearful sobs. I curl into a ball, hugging my knees as best I can around my stomach and rubbing the spot of impact above my brow .

Some of it’s about the storm, sure, but it’s also been a horrible couple of days.

First with Kyle and being threatened with a gun—an event my subconscious likes to replay, sending me nightmares where I can’t outrun his shadow—then being forced onto this wood-and-brass death trap, then being cooped up with someone who makes me feel like I’m on fire…

The door opens. “Nicole? I heard…” Dimitri stops himself, taking in the scene.

I don’t dare open my eyes—I don’t want to see the expression on his face when his voice is so even and gruff. I don’t want to see him at all.

“What happened?” he demands. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I bite out, trying to curl into a ball small enough that he won’t see me. Like that’s possible.

“You are… crying. Because you are hurt?” There’s a heavy pause, and I can picture him scanning the horizontal length of my body. “Or… frightened?”

I don’t bother answering, but I crack an eyelid.

There he is, a dark shape in the dim light, a hunched but massive presence.

His hair and clothes look wet, like he’s been out there in the rain.

At least, I hope… so far it has stayed blissfully dry in the cabin down here, but I don’t think I can handle the implications of taking on water.

“This storm is not so bad,” he says, keeping his balance as the boat tilts suddenly by snapping his arm out and gripping the doorjamb. He makes staying upright look effortless. I hate him a little for it. “We will probably not capsize, Nicole.”

I would laugh if I were sure that the sound that came out of my mouth wouldn’t be another sob. “Probably?” I repeat through gritted teeth. Not helpful.

“This boat is well-built, and we are anchored in an ideal location. You do not need to be afraid,” he continues, infuriatingly calm and reasonable .

“I don’t? Cool. Oh, wow, look at that—I’m not afraid anymore.”

“Nicole—”

“Just go away, Dimitri,” I plead, hating how small and scared I sound when Dimitri might as well be discussing… well, the weather.

I don’t think this is the kind of weather the saying is referring to.

With a sniffle, I wipe away another scalding tear with the back of my hand. I don’t need someone who runs hotter and colder than a fever mocking me. I don’t need a violent man making me feel even more like a coward. I don’t need this person witnessing how helpless I feel.

I hear his long exhale, and I slam my eyes closed again, impossibly more ashamed by his judgment.

“Sit up. You were sick once already; it will help to be vertical, especially if you feel dizzy from the rocking.”

I nod, accepting his advice as the pearl of wisdom it is, and uncurl my legs. I expect him to disappear back upstairs, now that he’s convinced there’s nothing actually wrong with me, but instead he sits on the edge of the bed and settles back against the wall, shoving fallen books out of his way.

“Come here.”

The room tilts and I fall back against the wall as my noodle arms give out, but Dimitri remains stable in his seated position, flexing his legs to keep himself in place. “What?” I squawk, gaping at him.

He confirms that he actually said what I thought he did by opening his arms like he’s asking for a hug. “Just get over here, med.”

I bristle at the nickname—I don’t love being reduced to my profession, but now’s not the time to request a do-over. “Why?”

He tsks. “Must you always know why, Nicole? You are in pain, and I am offering comfort—you can relate to this, da ? Take what I offer. Let me soothe you.”

My arms shake as I push myself up into a sitting position, and then I lurch towards him with the motion of the boat before I’ve even made up my mind. I catch myself against his leg and my face heats, so I avoid looking at him as I crawl to his side of the bed.

Yeah, I definitely played that one cool. Ego totally intact.

I aim for the space he left next to the wall, but he grasps my upper arm and pulls me towards him.

As I arrange my legs over his lap, stopping short of sitting on it the way he clearly expects me to, his arm comes around my back.

Holding me in place, he rests his other palm between my breasts, against my sternum.

It’s a warm, heavy weight that centers me and draws my focus.

I freeze, instantly anchored, and locked in.

My eyes drop, and the way his palm spans my chest makes my breath sharply exit my lungs.

His hands are… fuck me, they’re huge. I’m used to men with delicate hands in my work.

You need good dexterity to place an IV or use a scalpel, and fingers with pointed, elegant fingertips, balanced with soft, rounded palms are kind of the norm.

Not him. Like everything else about him, they’re enormous. Square, blunt-tipped, and covered in calluses and scars, his hand is strong with neatly trimmed fingernails and thick cuticles. Utilitarian is the word that comes to mind.

Dear God, what would those huge, blunt fingers feel like inside of me?

“Look at me,” he says. His tone is a gentle rumble that I feel all the way down to my toes. “Breathe.”

My breath expands automatically under his hand, breaking a staccato rhythm in the back of my throat.

“Good girl. Again.”

My stomach flops and my pussy spasms at the unintentionally sexual praise.

I grip his wrist with both hands and make deliberate eye contact as I take a deeper breath this time. I know what he’s doing, and instead of feeling infantilizing, it feels like a lifeline. I’m not having a panic attack, but he clearly knows what to do when someone is .

Is this what my patients feel like when I try to calm them down? Am I as good at it as he is?

“Good,” he murmurs. His eyes drop to my lips, but only for an instant. “One more.”

When I complete the next breath, his hand slides down to curl around my waist, skimming my breast in a way that might or might not have been intentional.

Succumbing to the calming pressure of being enveloped in a warm, delicious-smelling hug, I lean in and press my cheek against his hard chest. I can feel the texture of his chest hair through his shirt, and I almost rub my face against him like a cat.

“You’re wet,” I observe, not moving away. The moisture and heat that rolls off him makes the air swampy and humid, but I don’t care.

He tightens his arms around me, holding me steady as another wave slams into the boat and makes a loud crashing noise. His legs shift under mine, and he angles towards me more.

“It is raining,” he returns in that dry tone.