Page 45 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

Love language: touch.

We shower together, and he refuses to stop touching me, even when I laugh and try to pull away.

He wraps me in a towel, trapping my arms, then curls his hand around the side of my neck to hold me in place for a kiss.

He’s languid now that the edges of his need have dulled, but the feeling of his lips against mine and his tongue sliding in, taking easy, unhurried ownership, revs me right back up.

The pounding between my legs is persistent and urgent, but my stomach growls loudly, and he smirks against my lips. “I was prepared for that,” he says, leading me out into the main room.

I fix the towel, tucking it under my arms, and pad along behind him, watching as he takes two containers from a stack of four and places them in the microwave.

I gently scrunch my hair as they heat, mindful of his eyes on me, then follow him over to the sitting area while he sets everything out onto the coffee table in front of the couch.

I accept a fork and take a seat with a smile of thanks while I reach for the still-steaming container.

Once I’m settled with it, he leans back in his seat and angles himself towards me. I mirror his posture, thankful for the small distance. Maybe I’ll actually be able to focus on eating if I can think straight.

“Why are some of these containers labeled with your name?” he says, nodding towards the food. “Is it an allergy?”

“No, it’s probably because it’s meatless. ”

Eleanor has been so good to me. And the first bite is bliss.

It’s got an amazing, flavorful sauce, rice, and perfectly steamed veggies.

Bit odd for breakfast, I’ll admit, but considering Dimitri’s eating chicken and broccoli right now, I know he probably just didn’t look at what he grabbed.

Plus, I don’t mind something a bit more fortifying, since he had a look about him in the shower like we’re not going anywhere for a while.

“Is that what those cubes are?” he asks, pointing to one with his fork.

“Yeah, tofu. You’ve never seen tofu before?”

“Tofu?” he repeats, but it’s a scoff, not a request for clarification. “Why would you eat this?”

“I’m a vegetarian. I’m surprised you didn’t notice before, considering how observant you are. I guess we haven’t really been eating together.”

His brows snap together. “You do not eat meat? That is not good. It is very difficult to get your protein requirements from beans.”

The number of times I’ve had almost this exact conversation with people has prepared me for most arguments.

“Common misconception. Well, maybe it’s hard for someone like you,” I allow.

If the size of his portion and the shape of his body are any indication, he probably eats a whole chicken every day for the lean protein.

“But I’m not trying to maintain anywhere near your muscle mass.

And eating meat weighs me down and sometimes hurts my stomach, so it’s easier to avoid it. ”

His eyes narrow at me, and I can tell he wants to argue some more. Instead, he spears a hunk of chicken aggressively and chews noisily. “I do not like this. I will not allow you to become malnourished, my med.”

I lift my brows. I pop the vegetable into my mouth and chew a few times before tucking it into my cheek to say, “A significant portion of the world’s population subsists on a vegetarian diet and eats tofu daily. Besides, do I look malnourished to you? ”

He grumbles something I can’t quite make out, so I raise a brow at him. “And what makes you think you have any say in what goes into my mouth?”

The look he gives me is pure, raw lust, and it brings a rush of heat to my face that makes me purse my lips to keep from grinning like a fool. Okay, I’ll admit that one was a bit of a tease, but it’s like the more contentious my tone, the more it gets him going.

“At least allow me to calculate your nutritional requirements so I can be sure you will stay strong and not become vitamin deficient.”

A laugh nearly bubbles up, but he seems so sincere that I swallow it back. I’ve never had someone show me they care by offering to do math for me. “If it’ll make you feel better.”

In the silence that falls, I debate asking the question that I imagine is on the tips of both our tongues. So… what now? But I don’t want reality crashing back in. I want to bask in this easy feeling that he likes me, and I like him.

Unfortunately, there’s one way reality won’t be ignored, and it really should have been brought up last night. “So… we didn’t use a condom,” I say, staring down at my container and picking through the rice with my fork.

He throws a look at me and balances his breakfast carefully on his thigh. “We did not. We will not. I had a… vazektomiya .”

“Vasectomy?” I guess. The word sounds very similar.

“ Da. Also, I have not had sex in many years, and you are a nurse, so I know that if you exhibited symptoms of a disease, you would recognize it and treat it immediately.”

Relief whooshes out of my chest with all the air. He’s right about that. “And I have an IUD. Almost feels like overkill.”

He cocks his head. “An… explosive?”

I frown for a second, then chuckle. “That’s an I E D. An IUD—intrauterine device—is a form of birth control that sits inside the uterus. ”

“Oh. Da , I know you have this.” I must make a face of disbelief because his eyes drop to the outline of my legs through the towel. “Nicole, my fingers were deep inside of your pretty little cunt. I could feel this IUD. It has strings.”

Heat rises to my cheeks. I don’t know why it feels so much dirtier and hotter when he says shit like that, as if he were ordering a pizza.

So blunt. So casual. Not a shred of embarrassment.

“Yeah. Okay, so… we’re good. No STIs, no pregnancy…

” just his cum dripping from me before my shower in a way that makes my pulse race at the memory of it. ..

“Wait, did you just say you haven’t had sex in years ?”

“Years,” he confirms, shoving more chicken breast into his mouth.

I nearly gape. I know my own gender, and I’ve seen how feral they go for a man over six feet—with each increasing inch, the feral-ness grows exponentially. “How is that even possible? Women must try to jump your bones everywhere you go!”

Even he isn’t immune to being stunned by a blunt compliment.

He huffs what could be a laugh, and it casts vibrations through the padded cushions underneath us.

He throws his left arm over the back of the couch, leaving a large open space where I’m pretty sure I’d fit perfectly.

It brings his hand within inches of my shoulder, and I shift so he can just brush my skin with his fingertips. He does immediately.

Love language: touch. Got it.

“Perhaps you are the first person I have let close enough to touch me in a very long time. Or perhaps you are the first person brave enough to try.”

At the reminder that he is no ordinary man, my eyes drift to his scar, then forge a path downward to his torso, littered with the memories of pain and injury.

They catch on the tally mark tattoo on his pec.

Most of the lines are old and faded, with stipple marks that make it obvious that they weren’t professionally done.

But there’s a new mark at the end that I don’t remember seeing, with crisp lines and a darker shade of ink .

“What are you keeping track of?” I ask, pointing to the tally marks tattoo on his pec.

“What?”

“Oh, um… this tattoo,” I say, leaning forward and pointing to the area with a finger. When his eyes immediately drop to my cleavage, I have to lick my lips to speak. “There were 12 tally marks before, when I treated you on the boat. Now there are 13. What are you keeping track of?”

“It is the number of times I have survived being shot.”

I balk, feeling my jaw fall. “You… keep track of that? On your body? With a tattoo ?”

“A man should know how many times he has been shot.”

He’s been shot a dozen times?! 13 now? “Yeah, it’s kind of just more concerning to me that it’s happened enough times that you were afraid you’d lose track—and that a tattoo is the best way you could think of to keep that count. What about good old-fashioned pen and paper?”

“In a past life…” he eyes me as he trails off, evidently rethinking telling me the sordid details.

But my curiosity is piqued now.

“Keep going. I want to know,” I say, giving him some space to speak by shoving another bite of my breakfast into my mouth.

“In a past job , I was supposed to inspire fear, and my boss believed this tattoo was visible proof to show to others that I am difficult to kill. It was meant to be a sign of strength and an intimidation tactic. It was not often visible, but everyone knew your number.”

I swallow a bitter thickness that rises in the back of my throat despite the delicious sauce. “When you were in a Bratva ?” I guess.

He nods. I don’t want to know how old he was when the first tally mark was made. It’s super faded and wavy, like it stretched as he grew.

“How did you get out of the Bratva ? You put in for a transfer or something?” My joke feels feeble, but it makes the corners of his mouth twitch, which feels like a win .

“My father used to say that being in a Bratva is like a marriage—you are parted only by death.” The faraway look shutters in an instant, morphing back to neutral, but not before I catch a glimpse of happy nostalgia.

“I promised to earn your trust, so I will not lie to you. I will tell you if you wish, but it is not a nice story. It will not make you think well of me, Nicole.”

Yeah, I knew that. But I’m done tiptoeing around it. “I’ve always thought that the past designs us, but it doesn’t define us. What happens to you is the full story, and you get to decide which parts of it you carry with you.”

“Useful words, poetically put,” he says, with a faint smile, some of the rigid tension leeching from his posture. It sounds almost as if he’s reciting something.