Page 29 of The Kingpin's Call Girl

Chapter Twenty-Seven

EDIE

Luka sleeps on his side, breath slow and steady, eyes shut tight behind dusky lashes. Even in his sleep, his body curves toward me, one arm thrown protectively across my waist. The most dangerous man I’ve ever met, and I feel safer with him than I ever have before.

The moonlight streams in, kissing his cheekbones.

I can’t stop thinking about those scars.

Luka got those scars young—you can tell by the way they’re stretched. His body wasn’t fully grown when he got them. Where was he?

Each mark tells a story of survival. Of strength. I traced them with my fingertips and felt him shudder beneath my touch—not from pain but from the rarity of a gentle touch without judgment.

I slide my hand over his scruff, and his face seems to soften. I try to radiate calm vibes, but it’s hard not to be angry on his behalf.

I slide my palm over his cheek again, moving along the direction of his whiskers. His cheek is soft when I run my hand down like that.

He still wears some kind of medallion—the one that I noticed the first day—and I take the opportunity to examine it. A winged warrior with a sword. It’s the archangel Michael. Fighting. Perseverance. Just like Arianiti.

I go back out to the living area and grab a ginger ale from the minibar. I set my timer for four in the morning, grab a hotel scratch pad, and try to get back to work in the hours that I have before waking Luka.

According to Janey, Luka was sent somewhere at the age of twelve, and my guess is that’s where he got the scars—from a whip, I’m thinking.

Rage fills my chest and heats my face. How could a person do that to a kid? How could a parent allow it? And whoever did this, are they still hurting children?

Janey said there was talk of a military school or reformatory. Could that place still be in business? Because they shouldn’t be! They should be shut down, and whoever runs it should be arrested.

Punished. Severely punished.

I pull myself together and try to sink into my studies, managing a bit of reading, and I even get some good stuff for my thesis—supporting evidence I can footnote. I copy the citations onto a Google Docs file and make some notes for inserts.

Sometimes, I pause to sit with him and watch him sleep, feeling like I’m existing outside of time, outside of my classes, outside of the world. Just Luka and me.

When my phone tone sounds, I grab a towel and the ice bucket and create a makeshift ice pack. According to one of the sites I found, I’m supposed to hold the ice to his forehead. The cold will help wake him up and also address the swelling.

I shake him gently. “Hey,” I whisper.

Nothing.

“Come on.” I shake him again.

Grudgingly, he opens his eyes.

“I’m supposed to wake you every three hours. ”

“Says who?”

“The internet.” I touch the ice pack to his forehead.

He pushes it off. “Get out,” he growls. He’s tired. A tired bear. Google said he would be. He rolls over, away from me.

“You need this on your head for five minutes every three hours.”

He makes a growly sound, and it tugs at my heart.

“Hey.”

I stroke his cheek, and he takes a deep breath like his nervous system might be calming. He’d never let me touch him like that during the day—he’d probably chop off my hand—but he’s allowing it now.

I rest my hand on his cheek, cupping his cheek, while I press the ice to the injured spot on his head. You can feel the bump. You can see it.

Yet my touch seems to be settling him.

It’s so strange having this man, this killer, so vulnerable by my side. And I’m calming him.

It’s a kind of intimacy I’m not used to.

And he really, really is a killer. There’s no way he’s not. It’s possible he even killed people within the past twenty-four hours.

But this is where I want to be.

After a few minutes, his breath evens like he might be falling back asleep.

“You can’t fall asleep for three more minutes. Doctor Google’s orders.”

He protests sleepily.

“If you don’t like it, maybe you shouldn’t have gone around fighting.”

Grumble.

“Three more minutes.” I do the cheek-stroking thing again, and it works again.

Did somebody try to kill him? Will they try again?

A bullet in his head would solve a lot of my problems, but as I slide my hand over his hard, velvety beard stubble, it hurts my heart to think of it.

“Two more minutes, and you can sleep again.”

I shift the ice pack and stroke his cheek.

He’s a brute, yes.

But right now, he’s my brute.