Page 52 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

Florence Nightingale and the Grim Reaper.

The light in the bathroom spills out in a perfect rectangle from the spaces around the door, and the sound of running water nearly drowns out the voice within.

I would recognize that low, fluid speech in a crowded room, even though I have no idea what he’s saying.

I downloaded Duolingo on the new cell phone he bought me, but I haven’t made it very far yet.

I knock. “Dimitri?”

The water cuts, then déjà vu hits me like a train as the door opens, revealing an enormous expanse of bare chest and a stormy expression. Only this time, it clears, shifting into something much softer when he sees me. I wince, turning away from the bright light.

“Nicole,” he murmurs with an air of sheepishness. “I did not mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

When I try to see past him into the bathroom, he shifts to block my view.

But I still notice the med kit sitting out, and the new bandage on his right hand.

Next to a red-brown smudge on the counter, there’s a pair of tiny scissors lying on top of a pad of gauze—clearly, he decided it was time to remove the stitches and butterflies from his weeks-old gunshot wound while he had it out to treat his hand.

My stomach flops. Where was he tonight? How did he get hurt? Obviously, he was trying to keep it from me—to take care of it himself. The knowledge twists up inside me, making me feel awful, like it’s my fault he didn’t come to me.

Did he not want to wake me, or did he not want me to see and ask questions?

I decide to test that. “You’re taking out the rest of your stitches? Want some help?”

When he doesn’t answer right away, I return my attention to him and find his eyes glued to the bare skin exposed by my nightgown.

I’ve always liked silky things, and sleeping in pants makes me feel like I’m being strangled.

So this thin-strapped, mid-thigh, semi-transparent satin dress has become a favorite.

His chest rises and falls in short bursts, like his breath quickens with a racing heart. Seeing his reaction, my body is instantly awake, tingling and warm between my legs. Our suspended moment of longing ends abruptly as he jerks a nod and turns away.

He settles himself on the counter and leans back towards the mirror. His eyes remain locked on something on the ceiling as I approach and glove up to examine the area.

The stitches can definitely come out. It’s silly, since I’m the one who set his healing back, but I’m proud of how well and neatly the wound has closed.

So, when he goes rigid as I gently place my hand on his side, I know it’s not because of any pain. The fabric of his pants in his lap shifts, and he covers the area with his free arm, which nearly puts it in my way.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“I killed Viktor Volkevich tonight. ”

My stomach flops, and bile rises in the back of my throat, along with a dozen questions.

Worry mingles with every other emotion, weaving through them until it saturates every thought.

I know it’s an unusual reaction, but every discarded curiosity about what happened—who, where, why, when—is second to one horrifying possibility.

What if he’s caught?

When I say nothing in response to his revelation, his eyes search my face, desperate and wild.

His expression is pinched tight, like he expects judgment, rejection, disgust. But I don’t feel…

any of that. I feel angry that he was in danger and he didn’t tell me, and confused about my own reactions.

And for the first time in a while, hopeful.

Hopeful and desperately sad about it.

“The USB?” I ask, breathless. I hate the words as I speak them, but I have to know.

“Wesley is working on it. We should have answers in the morning.”

The silence that stretches after that statement feels heavy and sour. He won’t meet my eyes, and every line of his body is filled with tension that has nothing to do with the gentle pull of my fingers at a healed wound.

“Are you… okay?”

He exhales sharply, almost a laugh. “I tell you that I have taken a life, and you are concerned about my well-being?”

I bristle at his unkind tone. “I already know about what you do, Dimitri. I knew Volkevich was going to die. I’m not upset about that, if that’s what you’re—”

“I beat a man to death,” he interrupts harshly, flexing his bandaged hand. “I killed him with my bare hands. And while I watched the life drain from his eyes, I felt nothing.”

My breath catches at the confession. My eyes flick down to his wrapped knuckles, and I itch to redo it for him. Our differences have always been obvious, but they’ve never felt quite so tangible as they do now .

Florence Nightingale and the Grim Reaper.

“I don’t believe you.”

His brows snap down. “No? You think there is some tenderness or remorse hidden deep? I am not redeemable. I am not broken. I am destroyed. Broken things can be fixed; there is no hope for things that are destroyed.”

“No,” I correct myself quickly, realizing his statement was purposefully meant to ruffle my feathers. “I mean, I don’t believe you beat him to death because your hand would probably be broken. I think you’re capable of it and strong enough to do it. I just don’t think you did.”

His bark of a laugh surprises both of us. “Clever, Nicole. You are correct. I did beat him, but in the end, I slit his throat and let it drain into the sewers where he belongs, like the rest of them.”

I swallow the thick bile suddenly coating the back of my tongue.

I don’t like this. I don’t like how he’s talking about death like he hopes it will scare me.

This feels like a test somehow—one I’m not supposed to pass.

It’s like he doesn’t want to be the one to push me away, so he’s hoping I’ll do it myself if he throws something I don’t want to hear hard enough in my face.

I never asked to be shielded from what he does, but I don’t deserve these shock tactics either.

“If you’re trying to make a point, just make it, Dimitri,” I say, forcing a neutral tone instead of snapping like I want.

His icy eyes bore into me. “This is the line between us, and it always will be. We will always end up here because I take from the world and you give to it. But just as you cannot change what you are, I cannot change what I am.”

“What’s that? A hitman?”

“A monster,” he decrees, meeting my eyes with a kind of fierceness that makes my stomach flutter, even more than his declaration about killing someone with his bare hands .

The chills that have been hovering just under my skin for this entire conversation spread outward, prickling unpleasantly. I shake my head.

He doesn’t really believe that about himself, does he?

Misinterpreting my denial for something else, he catches my hand, and the anger shifts to something else.

Something softer, more urgent and pleading.

“But a monster has his uses. I would be a good protector for you, Nicole. Say the word and I will be your monster. Or tell me no, and I… think I could find a way to let you go.”

I realize suddenly what this is really about. The USB. The encroaching reality. Tomorrow, we’re going to find out what’s been keeping me here, and he’s as afraid as I am about what comes next.

Our gazes lock. He sits up straighter so he can reach for my side, landing just below my bottom rib. His thumb rubs against the silky nightdress, a delicate rustle of calluses catching against fabric. The tiny friction goes straight to my core.

He doesn’t want to let me go. I can see it in his eyes.

He’s trying to convince me to see him how he sees himself and begging me to accept him for it anyway.

I open my mouth to reassure him, but I can't force the words out for some reason. My chest tightens as I realize why this feels so wrong. If I say yes now, he’ll think that I want him in spite of thinking of him as a monster.

I can’t let that happen—not when it’s so far from how I see him.

I don’t want him to think of himself in that way.

But what the hell am I supposed to do? How do you tell someone you think that their self-image is fundamentally flawed? What could I possibly say that would be enough to erase years of additive experiences that convince us we are who the world tells us we are?

The world has tried to tell me who to be a hundred times. A thousand, maybe.

Be strong, but be vulnerable. Be independent, but you still need a partner, of course.

Be mothering and gentle and put others first. Actually, put yourself first and take time for yourself.

But don’t be selfish. Be brave. Be nice.

Be a badass, but don’t intimidate anyone. Be smaller. Be different. Be less.

There’s no right way to be a woman, or to be me. And I’m willing to bet it’s similar for him—the things he’s been told about himself are just very different.

All I can do for him is what I’ve done for myself—to varying degrees of efficacy—which is to remind him that he gets to decide who he is.

“On the boat, you told me you were dangerous and violent, and then you took care of me when I was freaking out. You kidnapped me, but you… gave me space and earned back my trust. You try to warm me whenever I shiver. You know how I like my coffee, you bought me clothes, you always check to make sure my toes are covered by the blankets, you clean my glasses for me—”

“How do you know that?” he interrupts. “You are always asleep.”

“Sometimes the nose piece is still wet,” I chuckle.

He huffs a breath through his nose. “I have seen you clean them on your shirt. You will scratch the lenses.”

I bite down on the smile that forms because he’s kind of making my point. “Do you want me to think of you as a monster?”

“I do not want to lie to you about what I am, but… no,” he admits, like I’m pulling it out of him through his teeth. “I do not want you to think of me in that way. I would not care if everyone in the world feared me… as long as you did not.”