Page 46 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

I smile, because it feels like praise, but it freezes on my lips as he begins, “I told you of my childhood—of Aleksandr. Do you remember this?”

“I don’t think I could forget,” I confess. Frankly, I’m haunted by the thought of a man evil enough to put a gun in the hand of a child and use that child’s love for his mother to control him.

“I told you that my father worked for him, then upon his death, Aleksandr took my mother for a mistress. I believe I mentioned she died, but I did not tell you that he killed her.”

I can’t contain a gasp.

“Not with guns or knives. He killed her with words. He killed her spirit and beat her body and stole her light until only darkness remained. It was declared a suicide, but I knew better. Aleksandr killed her. So, I vowed to take everything from him.”

He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, and I use the opportunity to wipe away a tear on the back of my arm so he doesn’t see me do it. I’ve seen the effects of domestic abuse firsthand in the emergency room too many times. What he’s describing is heartbreaking and far, far too common .

“It took me many years to rise to a position where I was considered a trusted man of the inner circle. Once I was close enough, I made my move. I killed him and every single member of his elite group—a dozen men, maybe more. I remember little of that night, but I woke, stained head to toe with blood. It was a massacre.”

A shocked noise slips out of me, and it makes him flinch. But he continues, eyes remaining locked on the other side of the room.

“But every man I killed had sons and brothers, and there is no way for one man to destroy an entire Bratva , no matter how motivated by rage. Word spread of what I had done, and I knew it was only a matter of time before someone found me and killed me to avenge their Pakhan. I fled Russia. I landed here. Wesley and the man we answer to—our handler—helped me disappear.”

I can see why he was hesitant to tell me. He was right; it’s not a nice story. Full of murder and death and betrayal.

And even so, I want so badly to comfort him, but I feel like I know him well enough at this point to anticipate his reaction.

Sure, he likes touch—welcomes mine, even—but the memory of pain is a solitary experience, and not everyone appreciates a pat on the shoulder while in the throes of emotional turmoil.

Dimitri is a deeply pragmatic person, like me, and sympathy only goes so far. It can’t change the past.

“So, Aleksandr had you make these marks?” I ask, gesturing to his pec. He nods, and I ask, “Why keep it up?”

“I suppose I think… that it is not possible to erase what made you into the person you are. That man is dead, but his impact persists; they are not good memories, but I carry this with me as a reminder of the things I have done.”

Chills climb my arms and torso. “Seems to me you wear your reminders, even without a tattoo,” I say, jerking my chin at his collection of scars. “How did this all happen to you? ”

His chin comes down, but since I’m staring at his abdomen, I can’t tell if he’s looking down at me or at the scars littering his skin. “Knife, shank, pistol, shotgun, uh… fireplace poker,” he starts rattling off, pointing to each scar.

After a grimace at the last one, I shake my head. “After everything you went through with Aleksandr… I’m surprised you chose this life. You could have started over when you got here—done something else, or been someone else.”

His chest expands with a noisy inhale through his nose, and I can hear the rasping of short hairs as he runs his hand across his head.

It’s his I’m uncomfortable tell. “As you said, the past designs us. I was raised in blood. I watched my schoolmates become carpenters or doctors or accountants, but I was always told this was not for me. Killing men is all I have ever known. I am very good at it.”

I have no words for that. He doesn’t even sound proud of the fact; he sounds like he’s reciting a truth he’s told himself enough times that his belief in it is unquestionable.

All at once, worry creeps back in, tainting the calm serenity and afterglow of physical and emotional intimacy, and reminding me of how complicated this situation is.

I just had the best sex of my life with a man who kills people for a living.

The Russian mafia may be after me. The police think I’m a missing person.

Actually, complicated doesn’t even scratch the surface. The consequences of everything that’s happened and the choices we’ve both made loom on the horizon, growing and shifting and staying too obscure to really be seen or understood. I’m terrified of what happens when they finally catch up with us.

Dimitri stands, taking his empty container to the kitchenette and depositing it in the sink. I pick through some of the rice with my fork, sensing the emotional distance growing. And it doesn’t take a genius to understand where it’s coming from .

I’m an ass. He bared himself to me, telling me something that obviously makes him uncomfortable, and I’m so in my own head that I turned it around and made it about me.

“You’ve had a really hard life; I’m sure it’s not fun reliving those memories,” I say quietly. “And for what it’s worth, I’m glad you told me. I… want to know more about you. Anything you’re willing to share. I’m happy just to listen.”

There’s a sharp, tinny noise of cutlery hitting the base of the sink, and Dimitri’s head hangs as he clutches the sides. “Ty zhenshchina, kotoraya smogla ukrotit' monstra.”

“Dimitri?”

“Thank you, Nicole.”

I don’t know what I said to elicit this kind of response, but when he turns, his dick is pressing against the towel, thickening and straining as it grows.

The look he gives me is so hungry, I forget where I am and what I’m doing for a second.

My vagina clenches, aching deep inside where he slammed into me again and again. Like a machine. An animal.

Fuck. Last night was… everything.

I’m sore, but I think I could probably stand being a little more sore. Going another round is preferable to this maudlin conversation, that’s for sure.

Emboldened, I set aside the rest of my breakfast and unwrap the towel from my torso. As I reveal my nudity to him, he reaches back to steady himself against the counter in a white-knuckled grip.

The intensity of his desire for me is such a rush.

“No. Finish your meal,” he orders on a rasp. My nipples prickle under the sharp heat of his gaze.

“I’m done.”

I part my legs and let my hips shift forward. My breath stutters as his eyes rake down. The towel starts to tent around his groin, but he shakes his head .

“You are not done. You will need your strength today,” he promises, reaching down to adjust himself and letting his hand linger to rub his cock through the terrycloth. “But stay just like that until you finish. I wish to watch your body ready itself for me. Drink your water, too.”

A thrill zings through my stomach, and I grab for the Tupperware to do as he says, even as my body sends the rush of moisture exactly where he’s watching for it.