Page 33 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

You are a loose end, and a Bratva does not leave those to unravel.

My first thought is that my whole body kind of hurts, and my second is that I’m comfortable despite that.

I inhale deeply through my nose, and fill my lungs with the scents of…

him—a strong scent memory, buried under unfamiliar ones that makes the blood pound between my legs.

Clean laundry and spit. Soap and cum. It’s aggressively masculine with an undercurrent of something so fresh that it’s almost sterile.

Damn. That really shouldn’t get me going the way it does.

It’s so pervasive, there’s no way he’s not right under my nose. Am I sleeping on his chest?

I felt him when he lay down behind me. I was mostly asleep, but it’s hard not to notice your body being jostled by almost 300 pounds of man meat, no matter how gentle he’s trying to be.

It honestly didn’t occur to me to be upset by his utter lack of boundaries because he was so solid and warm, and it just felt… nice.

My eyes pop open, and I find myself alone, just surrounded by covers and pillows that have absorbed enough of his essence to fool me.

I sit up, wincing at the muscle pain and deep bruises littered across my skin.

My body feels battered. Almost… used. Like we fought hard, and I lost. I guess that technically is what happened…

I just wish all the sensations were swapped—there’s, like, one part of me that isn’t sore, and I sorely wish it were the only part of me that was .

God, this is so messed up. I can’t believe I could still want him like this after everything he did to me.

And how could he want me after everything I did to him?

Our list of sins against each other reads like the criminal charges of one of those Bratva guys—assault, battery, aggravated assault, assault with a deadly weapon…

I sigh and scrub my face. My sleep schedule is all out of whack.

It’s mid-morning, so at this point, I’ve been here for a little more than 24 hours, and I’ve been asleep for most of it.

I also showered and ate a really delicious sandwich Dimitri must have left for me, but that’s about it.

Between the trauma and the headache and not being able to see and the terror at imagining who or what might be waiting for me in that big house…

Yeah, I hid. Not ashamed to admit it.

Just as I’m about to swing my legs around and get out of bed, I catch sight of something on the bedside table next to me. I reach for the little packages that seem very familiar…

“Contacts!” I cry, squinting and seeing the prescription is mine. My heart flips around in my chest. It’s a stupidly small thing, but I can’t help how it makes my heart soar. He got me contacts.

Excited, I grab both boxes and race into the bathroom, barely stopping to tuck the towel back around myself that I donned after my shower.

After washing my hands, I put the contacts in and sigh in relief as the world comes back into focus.

The slight headache that steadily grew from the pointless efforts of straining to focus abates immediately.

There’s a noise at the door, and Dimitri appears in the opening, looking down at his phone.

He hasn’t seen me, so I use his distracted state to stare openly.

I… forgot what he looked like. I forgot how good he looked when I could see all of him, all at once, from more than five feet away and not hunched in a rocking boat, or blurry and out of focus.

My mouth goes a little dry at the sight of sweat beading on his face and upper arms. He’s always buff, but he clearly just worked out and looks particularly swollen and veiny.

When he kicks the door closed behind him, chills erupt over my body.

He’s wearing gray sweatpants. I can see the thick outline of his…

I gulp like a cartoon character. Damn, is that thing always on display like that?

He lifts the bottom of his shirt to wipe sweat from his face. I want to lick the rolls of his abs and feel out the divots with my tongue.

I hear myself make a helpless little noise. He drops the fabric and looks right up at me, like he knew exactly where I’ve been standing the whole time. Like his sweaty little pause was just for me, so I could look all I wanted.

His eyes drop, widening with interest and lingering, and I realize with a start that I’m still basically nude. I adjust the towel under my pits, face hot.

“Hello, Nicole.”

Nee-cole.

I swallow, pressing my legs tighter together against a sudden, dull throbbing. “Hello, Dimitri. Thank you for the contacts,” I say, gesturing to my face, like he wouldn’t know where they go. Yes, thank you for supplying me with what I need to ogle you .

He just nods his acceptance of my thanks, so I breeze past it so it’s not awkward. “Did you go back to my place?”

“No, it would not be safe to return to your apartment.” He cocks his head, looking back and forth between my eyes like he can tell that he’s in focus now. “Contacts are more easily obtained. You will receive a new pair of glasses later today.”

I straighten in surprise. “What? You got me… You didn’t have to do that.”

He makes a face. “I am responsible for their loss, so I am also responsible for their replacement. ”

All I can do is duck my head and marvel at the reach required for someone to find my prescription without my authorization. Someone knows how to work around a system, or has unfathomable connections.

“Well, thanks. That was nice of you. You look like you came here to shower,” I say, offering a casual-conversation olive branch.

“I did.”

“You also look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” I continue.

Black eyes are an unfortunate cosmetic side effect of a broken nose, and the purple of his bruises looks particularly dark against his pale skin.

“ Da ,” he allows, a slight teasing edge to his tone. “A small, angry one with surprisingly good aim, even without glasses.”

Well, he’s clearly not still mad about the broken nose. That’s good to know…

Wait.

“Small?” I repeat, snorting as I chew on my lower lip so he won’t see my ridiculous smile. “I was almost six feet tall when I started high school. I’ve been getting things off the top shelf for people in the grocery store since I was in middle school. I’ve never been small. I’m not small.”

“In an absolute sense, perhaps not. But you are smaller than me,” he says, almost dismissively, totally ignorant of how being called small for the literal first time in my life is completely rocking my world.

He crosses the room towards the kitchenette and grabs a waiting shaker bottle, draining the protein in one shot. When he’s done, he rinses the cup, speaking to me over his shoulder. “I am pleased you are awake and that you look well. I think perhaps my wound should be examined.”

My eyes drop down to its approximate area on his torso, and I see that there’s a strip of flesh still visible because his shirt didn’t fall back all the way into place.

My mouth goes dry. “You’re probably right.

If you want to take a shower and give it a gentle cleaning, I can come take a look when you’re done. ”

“Good.” He points. “In there is a closet. Feel free to select something to wear.”

For some reason, that makes my cheeks heat. “Okay, thanks.”

Like it is about half the time, his only answer is a nod, and then he disappears into the bathroom.

I hear the water come on and then turn off five minutes later, barely enough time for me to snoop.

Everything is neat, minimal, and organized, and my stomach does a flip as I think about how similarly we occupy our personal spaces.

I’ve never needed or wanted a lot of stuff, and clearly, Dimitri is the same.

Everything he owns is intentional, purposeful.

I wait a little bit to give him time to dry off and dress, then I knock.

“Come in.”

When I enter the bathroom, our eyes meet in the mirror, and I can see that he’s carefully patting the line of stitches dry with some sterile gauze.

Then I balk. My timing was off. He’s still got a towel wrapped around his waist.

“Want me to come back?”

We both glance down at the terrycloth. It’s knotted, and probably not going anywhere, but for some reason, having just a towel between us feels different, even though this is the same amount of skin that’s been on display before. Pants are just so much more… solid.

He lifts a brow. “Does this make you uncomfortable, my med?”

“No, it’s fine,” I huff, peeved at the nickname, since the intentional use feels almost like he’s mocking me.

I’m a medical professional. A nurse. I see naked bodies all the time.

He spins and leans against the counter while I grab tweezers and some gloves from the kit. I bend forward, wincing at the state of the inflamed skin.

“How does it look?”

“It was better before, obviously. How’s the pain?”

“Not bad. Sore. ”

“It’ll probably be another week or two until you’re back to normal, but it doesn’t look infected, so that’s good. Sorry again about hitting it.”

“Do not be sorry—you were defending yourself, and it is always smart to go for your opponent’s weakest point. The only reason it has healed this well so far is because I have been in the care of a trained professional,” he acknowledges, dipping his chin.

I turn my head, focusing down instead of reacting to the praise.

“I’m going to take some of the stitches out and replace them with butterfly strips.

But you’re still… you’re a little wet,” I say, nodding at the water that clings to his smattering of chest hair.

He reaches for another towel, and I hold out my hand for it. “I’ll get it.”

With a look that’s all liquid heat, he slowly hands me the towel.