Page 30 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

I stiffen against him because now I can’t help mentally finishing that sentence for him. Would he have killed them to defend himself? I know they have guns and receive some combat training, but… frankly, up against Dimitri, I wouldn’t put my money on the cops.

I shake my head. “You could have stopped somewhere and let me out.”

“You would have run. You did run. I could not risk anyone seeing.”

A frustratingly fair point.

“I had no intention of hurting you, Nicole. I do not. I will not. Fight me however you like—try to kick me, punch me, or stab me if it makes you feel better… I may restrain you so you do not harm yourself, but I will not return the blows.”

Realization slowly sinks in. In our long list of crimes against each other, mine are the only violent offenses. He hasn’t retaliated physically against me in any way, and he’s acting concerned about me. He’s trying to warm me.

If I were ready to condemn him over a single overheard conversation, shouldn’t I be willing to absolve him after he shows me that I’m mistaken?

“Okay, truce,” I agree. “I believe you don’t want to hurt me.”

He starts stroking my hair again. I almost stop him, anxious about a man’s lack of awareness about texture and tangles, but relax when I feel that he’s avoiding the knots and not making them worse. It is oddly soothing.

“I’m sorry I attacked you,” I tell him after a moment. “I promise I didn’t mean to hit your injury.”

“Did you mean to break my nose?” There’s a hint of laughter in his voice.

“Yes,” I confess, taking after his blunt honesty. I’m smiling a little, too, and grateful that he can’t see it. “And I’m sorry for that, too. ”

There’s a long pause that feels almost light in contrast to the weight of the situation. It shifts slightly when he sighs, “After last night, I thought we… You believed I would kill you, Nicole?”

I can tell he’s hurt, but he’s trying not to be obvious about it.

I wish I could be annoyed about that, but I kind of know how he feels. My own emotions are welling just behind my eyelids, and if I cry, he’s not allowed to see that, either. With a sigh of my own, I tuck my chin and press my cheek harder to his chest.

“Put yourself in my shoes for a minute—”

“You are not wearing shoes. Or anything, for that matter.”

My heart thumps hard twice against my sternum, a pitiful, too-tired-for-arousal response from a too-cold body.

“Metaphorical shoes,” I correct. “It means try to understand my perspective. I was alone, trapped on a boat, when I can’t swim, with a man who can hit a bullseye with a knife while on a rocking surface with his eyes closed.

That man, who’s told me repeatedly he’s not a good person and who tried to rid me of any way to communicate by throwing my phone out the window, sneaks away to have a secret conversation about taking care of witnesses to a murder he committed. ”

I let that hang in the air between us. He’s gone rigid against me.

“So, yes, Dimitri. I was afraid. I didn’t want to think you’d kill me, and I knew there was a chance I was misunderstanding. But there was also a chance I was right, so I figured I was definitely safer on my own.”

“I see,” he says, and his voice has softened. With regret? Apology? “You were being careful. Smart. After what I have said and done and kept from you, you do not trust me.”

It’s not phrased like a question, but I answer it anyway. “I want to,” I whisper through a tight throat. “I want to think of you as the man who comforted me during the storm. But I guess… I didn’t know what else to think after you tried so hard to convince me that you’re a bad person.”

I wince as I finish because it sounds like I’m blaming him. And I guess I am. But this is a consequence of his own actions, right? I shouldn’t feel bad.

Except I do. Because he looks torn up about it, and now I feel like that’s my fault.

“I understand,” he says after a second and rests his chin on top of my head. “I treated you with disrespect.”

I start. He… did? He did. He did!

I’m not sure it would have occurred to me to use that word, but it’s the perfect word. How he acted was so disrespectful. “Yeah,” I agree.

“I do not deserve your trust. Not yet. But I will, I promise. I will earn it.”

While the blankets and body heat warm me on the outside, what he said warms me on the inside.

Slowly, the stress-tightened muscles in my back relax.

The heat makes me languid and loose, and unfortunately, now I’m hyper-aware of every area of my body that hurts.

The main issue is that there are so many.

The bottoms of my feet that were already torn up, my calves and thighs from running, my hip from bouncing against the floor of the trunk, my arms from pushing and pulling and banging on the hood, my hands from catching my fall, my chin and jaw and tongue from not catching my fall…

And topping it all off, my head is pounding with what is maybe the worst headache of my life.

I can barely keep my eyes open. He notices.

“Rest, now,” he says soothingly, loosening his hold. “You are safe here. No one will disturb you.”

“Are you leaving?” An edge of panic worms into my voice, and I start sitting up.

“I need to debrief my team. I will return here shortly, and when I do, we will talk about what happens next.”