Page 37 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Dimitri

Of course you’re serious; you’re always serious.

After days of healing, Nicole finally permits me to return to a course of weightlifting.

The gym is what convinced me to live in this house with my team, instead of moving between motel rooms and safe houses as I had for years.

I am calmed by the scent of rubber and iron, and the sight of organized, clean rows of weights and machines.

It is a large room, full of equipment I do not use.

I am “old school” according to James because I prefer to use the Olympic-style weights.

But I did not get strong with guided movements from ropes and pulleys.

I got strong by lifting heavy things and putting them down. Repeatedly.

The wound on my side pulls as I complete my final set of six chest presses at 320 with the barbell.

Anything over 300 pounds does push my limit, especially when healing, but I am recovering well, and I need to push myself.

I have been trying to keep myself physically exhausted, since there is very little we can do about our Volkevich issue until the flash drive is cracked.

In theory, if I spend my energy here, it will help me control myself when I am around her.

But it is just a theory. In practice, managing my desire has proved to be… difficult.

I do not know how James does it—he controls his urges well enough around all of us. He does not embarrass himself or walk around with an erection, like an untried teenage boy .

Perhaps that is because he is getting true relief with a partner.

I have painted the walls of the shower enough times, but it is a temporary respite, only enough to take the edge off for a little while. An empty orgasm is not what my body truly wants, especially as I lay near her every night, breathing in her scent and filling my hands with her.

I grit my teeth and refocus my attention on the weight hovering above my nose. 10 minutes later, with a final, forceful exhale, I rack the barbell. Sweat pours down my face as I sit back up on the bench and reach for the towel and water bottle on the floor.

There is a shuffling noise over by the doorway, and Wesley strides in for a workout, dressed in loose sweats and a sleeveless shirt, his head down and attention buried in his cell phone. His headphones are on, though only one is covering his ear.

He shoots me a friendly smile as he crosses over to the bench, and I pull my sweatshirt on. “All done over here?” he asks, gesturing to the bench and barbell.

“Yes, let me remove the weight—”

“That’s all right, mate, I’ll rack it up… Jesus, 320? I would have been your spot.”

“You were busy,” I say dismissively. In truth, I had not checked if he was free.

He cocks his head at me, and his eyes drop to my waist. “Guess this means you’re all healed up, then? Can’t imagine our nurse would’ve cleared you for lifting heavy otherwise.”

Our? I suddenly need to clench my fists to keep my arms at my sides, as the urge to strike at Wesley’s face rises and falls like a wave through me. “Well enough to begin assisting James with his surveillance duties tonight.”

After James located the Volkevich base of operations, the routine of Viktor Volkevich was a simple thing to chart.

If we wanted to kill him, James could easily have managed by now with a single shot between the eyes.

Viktor is complacent. Careless. So far from the men who call themselves Pakhan in my home country.

Wesley pockets the clips from the barbell and slides off one of the circular plates. I do the same on the opposite side to assist. “You’re taking nights? How’d he rope you into that one?”

It is no secret that I maintain a rigorous personal routine. It is not just a meticulous course of diet and exercise, but also a regimented sleep schedule. I prefer not to stray from my routine.

In this matter, however, there are many reasons I agreed to assist at night.

For one, I am making amends to my team for the critical mistakes I made at the wedding.

For another… my will is proving to be much weaker than I expected, and I worry that another night spent next to Nicole will be the final test of it.

She never even fought me about sharing a bed, though every night she constructs a wall of pillows between us that end up on the floor as soon as I join her. I know she still suffers from nightmares from the trauma she endured, but she always calms in my arms.

“I am not made of snow or ice—I will not melt or break from a change in my environment. I can make adjustments to my schedule.”

“There was a time I would have argued the made of ice point,” he chuckles, but it becomes hollow as it echoes around us.

I give my brow a final mop with the towel before tossing it into the hamper by the door of the gym and reach for my water bottle. “Any updates?”

“A few. No word from Felix—I’m assuming he’s in the wind, now—and no movement at Nicole’s place.”

“If they have not gone looking for the USB there, either they know she has not been back, or they do not know she has it.”

“Difficult to say which is more likely. I’ve got an alert up for her picture in the usual online places, in case they hire someone to find her. ”

I shake my head. “It is not Bratva style to hire out that kind of work. Or any, really. That is what soldiers and enforcers are for.”

He nods tersely, and I understand his frustration. It is easy for him to find things online, but not everything leaves a digital footprint. And when something does not, he is rendered ineffective.

“I’ll keep the alert up, just in case.”

“What else?” I ask, sensing he has more to update me on.

“Well, turns out Kyle might actually be alive.”

I nearly spit out the water I had just sipped. “You are just saying this now? Why was it not your first statement?”

“I don’t know for certain yet,” he says carefully, sliding 20-pound plates where my 50s were and replacing the clips to keep them in position on the bar.

“Something Nicole said made me look into it, and I finally found something interesting in my digging. Seems the coroner who signed the report is receiving sporadic payments from more than just the county—Kyle might have bought a false report and faked his death.”

“Nicole caught this?” I ask, chest swelling with pride.

He nods. “Haven’t traced the transactions back all the way, but some of my best spiders are on it. I’ve also been combing his past reports for more mistakes like the one she spotted to see if there’s a pattern to help us determine whose thumb he’s under.”

Wesley’s spiders—his army of anonymous amateur sleuths—have helped us countless times in the past. If he says they can help us find out if Kyle is alive, I believe that.

I move over to stand behind him as he lies down on the bench.

I keep a hand poised under the middle of the bar, a safety net for any uncontrolled movements.

It is 220 pounds, very respectable. And I note, well above where he began his training last year.

“If Kyle is alive, it will change the situation with Nicole drastically,” I observe, pleased that I kept her close.

“Where are you with the password on the drive? ”

I am not a man who can do two things at once effectively. Wesley proves he is. With a grunt, he lifts the bar off its perch and presses it up and down as he continues our conversation effortlessly. “You know I can’t answer that. Could take an hour, could take a month. Depends on the complexity.”

Though sometimes it is frustrating, I appreciate his unwillingness to speak decisively without proof. I am learning to do the same, though I still leap ahead of the truth occasionally.

I observe the rest of his set, waiting until he finishes the last rep to speak. “Have you shared your suspicions about Kyle with James?”

“I haven’t seen him yet today. When he’s not on surveillance, he’s with Eleanor. They barely come up for air now, since they got engaged.”

“They are loud,” I agree. “And energetic.”

He makes a commiserative expression with his face that might also be a grimace under the strain as he begins a new set. “Is that why you moved to the pool house?”

I moved because after so long living alone, I found it difficult to share a living space.

Not that I seem to have that issue with Nicole. It does not bother me, even when she misses the hamper with her socks and does not wipe the sink after brushing her teeth.

“I enjoy the privacy. Sometimes when they believed no one would hear, they began their sex games before they reached the top of the stairs.”

“Is that jealousy I detect, big guy?” he grits out through his teeth, straining under the weight.

I roll my eyes. All these nicknames. More common from James, but Wesley also occasionally decides not to use my real name.

I dislike this practice almost as much as I dislike the monikers they have chosen for me.

Bear, Big Guy, Beast… they evoke an image of a giant, lumbering un skillfully through the world.

I do not need to be constantly reminded of my size.

“I would have thought that you and Nicole—”

“One more,” I instruct, seeing that he handles a set of five with enough ease. When he finishes that one, I have him complete one more.

“This is why…” he grunts, completing the final push to get the barbell back onto the rack to rest, “I hate when you’re my spot.”

“This is why you have put on 30 pounds of muscle since we have been training together,” I counter, hitting the top of his shoulder with the back of my hand. “This and nutritional improvements.”

He smiles and lays the towel over the back of his neck as he sits up for a rest between sets. “Right,” he says, shaking his head.

“Would you like me to stay while you complete your routine?” I ask.

“I’m fine here. I’ll text you any updates, as usual.”