Page 56 of Kept in the Dark (Hitmen of Ulysses #2)

Nicole

Too rigid to bend, he’d break instead

I move to the pool house like I’m in a trance, going through the motions of putting on workout clothes for lack of anything better to do. I guess a workout would help ground me, and I desperately need that right now because I feel like a light breeze would knock me over.

Hundreds of millions of dollars.

That’s so much money. It’s too much money. It’s frankly a stupid amount of money.

It doesn’t feel real. And maybe it’s not, in the tangible sense of the word, but neither is money in a bank by that reasoning.

It terrifies me. The guys were pretty blasé about it, so I’m guessing it’s not as big a sum of money to someone in their world as it is to me, but that’s…

hitting the lottery. It’s being set up for the rest of the lives of everyone in your family.

It’s never worrying about anything again.

It’s money to kill for—to be killed for.

I had a dozen guesses about what was on that flash drive, and money was one of them. But I’m not really sure where this leaves us. As long as we have it, or someone thinks I do, I’ll always be a target.

I will always keep you safe.

He’s said it before, and he said it again last night. At the time, it left me breathless with a delirious kind of happiness because the sincerity in that promise is so deep, I can’t touch the bottom. But in the light of day, it just feels daunting .

In his world, safety often comes at the cost of another life.

In this case… every Volkevich out there?

Viktor is one thing, and I’m sure he’s got guys in his inner circle who are just as bad, but where does it end?

What about their families? What if innocents die, caught in the crossfire? What if Dimitri can’t get to everyone?

He’ll take care of me; I know that much. He’s told me over and over that he will.

And while I definitely couldn’t do this alone, being taken care of doesn’t… fit me. It doesn’t sit quite right. It makes me feel like a burden, something weak that needs protection.

The deeply independent part of me bristles.

In my world, I don’t need protection. I’m fine alone.

I look out for myself—I have since my mother gave me a key to the front door at eleven years old and I started using my babysitting money to refill the pantry so I didn’t go to sleep hungry—and there’s a fierce kind of pride in that.

But in his world, I’m smart enough to recognize my own shortcomings.

He’s willing to be my protector. My monster.

For now.

And then what? How long does that last? As long as the sex stays hot?

What if things don’t work out and he ends up feeling tied to me for a promise he didn’t mean to make?

Am I out on my ass, or would he soldier through and slowly resent me more and more?

I know what that does; I watched my parents spiral downwards to a divorce borne of resentment.

I don’t think I could stand losing him bit by bit, with stupid arguments no one meant to start, and unkind words that go without an apology, and festering silence.

And what if the dangers of his job catch up with him? Am I collateral damage, or a burden to be passed on to the next member of his team?

I can’t do it. I can’t.

But I don’t want to leave him .

What if… what if he came with me, or we figured out some kind of back-and-forth arrangement?

I try to picture him waking up next to me in my bed, and I just draw a blank. I’m not sure if there’s enough room in my rental bedroom for a king, and he probably wouldn’t even fit in the tiny shower I sighed at during my walk-through.

I could move. That’s no big deal. But… would he want to sleep over, outside this center of operations?

Would he risk being followed to my place?

Would he come late at night, covered in blood, rushing in so my neighbors wouldn’t see?

Would we go out to dinner, or to the movies, or play mini golf?

Would he come to Thanksgiving and meet my stepfamily?

Would he fix a broken window for me, or drink wine on the couch and pretend not to like reality TV, or keep a toothbrush next to mine, or fold laundry with me…

or any of the hundreds of small, banal things that comprise sharing a life with someone?

I can’t see it. We’re like a melody played in the wrong key—beautiful, but discordant.

He just doesn’t fit in my life, as I’ve built it. Being a hitman is all he has, and he told me he’s not flexible enough to be anything else—too rigid to bend, he’d break instead. He wouldn’t like my life the way I’ve built it. I couldn’t ask him to change for me.

After speaking to Eleanor, I’m not sure I can handle staying here. I mean, I haven’t felt especially trapped, but… what if I do? What if I want to leave?

Do I want to leave?

I drop my face into my hands. I don’t know. I don’t know! Yes, in some ways; no, in others.

Why does this feel like such an either/or? A fork in the road, and each direction is a one-way street with no return. One way is freedom; the other is confinement. One way is lonely; one is with the man that I lov—

Whoa.

Fucking whoa .

No. Absolutely not. I can’t… there’s no way. I’m not going there.