She slipped her arm through his. “I would love a shower.”
“Fair enough. But you might need some assistance washing, you know, with your injury.”
“Are you volunteering?”
“I know it’s a hardship, but I’m willing to make the sacrifice.”
She giggled as they went inside.
Back up in the room, they entered the bathroom and he turned on the shower so the water could heat. He helped her get undressed, careful as he pulled her shirt over her head. Slipping his arm around her, he guided her under the spray.
“Tip your head back,” he said.
She complied and he wet her hair and washed it, the feel of his hands in her hair heavenly.
After rinsing and applying conditioner, he washed her, his hands riding over her body in a way that was very neutral. He took care of his own body while she held onto his waist and kissed his back.
Once he turned off the water, he helped her out and dried her off with one of the big, white fluffy towels, then ruffled it through her wet hair, then his. With the stubble on his face, he had that rough, dangerous look. She stared up at him. He cupped the side of her face with his hand and tilted her face up while opening his mouth over hers careful with his body against hers.
Her breasts met the wall of his muscled chest, his skin hotter than the water had been, tingling through. She suppressed any wayward thoughts, the pain in her side telling her she wasn’t well enough.
With her hips cradling his, her other hand slid up the back of his neck, pulling him closer. She loved the warm, comforting feel of him, the way he was so hard to her soft curves.
He slid his tongue in her mouth and she felt cherished, the taste of him, the soft way he kissed her all a testament to his tenderness.
She felt the full force of his love, could taste the sweetness on her tongue. There were so many other ways to be intimate. Bolstered by how he was handling himself, she wanted to lie with him wanted, him close to her, needed him to hold her after such a close brush with death.
She kissed him back as the fervor of his mouth gentled a bit more.
“Neo.” She whispered his name, and he smiled at her with deep affection in his eyes and on his devastatingly handsome face.
Everything about him felt good.
He lifted her into his arms, and he smelled so good, like soap and shampoo, the wet silk of his hair soft and in such a sexy disarray, all she wanted was for him to hold her. He kissed her again, this time a little frantically as he walked her from the bathroom into the bedroom. All she needed was him here with her. They could face all of it when they woke up, but they would be together. He held her tightly against him, then released her so they could dress. Then they came together under the covers, wrapping each other tightly in their arms.
It was the calm after the storm, the calm before the storm. Tonight, they were going to put their lives on the line again, sprint toward freedom and the opportunity to fight another day, take down Darko and Zasha on their terms.
14
The room was dark and quiet when he entered. He closed the door silently behind him and ghosted across the suite’s living area. He dismissed the first bedroom and went right for the room that was in the middle. It’s where the boy would be sleeping with guards on either side.
He’d killed many people, thousands in the war, old men, women, children. There was no distinction to him, faces, deeds, or reason long forgotten. The thing he always remembered: There was never any mercy.
The boy’s father had never seen it coming. The mother, she was racked by grief and never put up a fight. He was Darko’s killer and he never challenged his master’s orders. But he, this one moment in time, did not understand the outright murder of this family member. The only blood Darko had left.
It wasn’t his place to challenge the reasons. He was only the weapon.
He opened the door and slipped into the room. The ambient light from the window showed a slight figure in the bed. He approached on soft feet, pulling the combat knife from its sheath, the blade gleaming in the dim light. He gripped the handle and raised his arm to plunge the blade to the hilt in the boy’s heart.
His arm swung, but a strong hand clasped his wrist before the blade could make it to the boy.
“Alek, run!”
2-Stroke roused before the alarm could sound. Something…he didn’t know what was off. It was his innate sense of time that always had him waking before he could be buzzed awake. The bed was warm and soft, but Chry was warmer and softer and he didn’t want to separate from her. But they were heading out under the cover of night. He nuzzled his face in her neck and whispered, “Time to rise and shine, sleeping beauty.”
She made an indistinct sound, reaching for him as he slipped out of bed and got dressed, the center of his back tight, his shoulders stiff. He went to the window and looked out. Nothing moved. The street was empty except for the usual cars. Marta’s van sat in front of the house waiting for them.
He continued to scan, and his gut clenched in warning. Maybe his discomfort was in anticipation of the distraction his brother was supposed to provide so they could get out of the city with the best head start possible. Worrying about Striker wasn’t going to make this any easier or smoother. His brother was a Tier One operator. He knew what he was doing and rarely failed in the execution. Both Iceman and Preacher were also top-notch operators, smart, resourceful, and deadly. He had to trust them to give them the cover they needed and to get themselves clear with Alek.
If anyone could keep him safe, it was the three of them.
On high alert, he turned away from the window. All the gear was packed up, and Marta had delivered the van in the early afternoon before they all retired for shut-eye in anticipation of the long, perilous drive to the border.
When he opened the bedroom door, Saint and Aella were coming out of their room. It was interesting to see them together. It was clear that his teammate was smitten with the very pretty ATF agent.
They filed down the stairs, 2-Stroke dropping his gear by the door, then heading back up. When he entered the bedroom, Chry was up and dressed, but moving slowly. “You okay, babe?”
She nodded. “It’s manageable with pain relievers.”
“You ready to go? Striker and the others should be causing a ruckus soon.”
“I’m ready,” she said, and he walked with her to the stairs, taking her arm as she descended. At the bottom, they donned their coats, gloves, and hats. Shouldering the gear bags, Saint was the first one to open the door and step out onto the front porch.
A shot cracked in the dark night and thunked into the wood just over Saint’s left shoulder.
“We’ve been compromised!” he yelled.
Striker grappled with the big shadow, the man solid and strong. Alek pushed off the covers and streaked away. The man brought his free hand around and clamped onto Striker’s throat and with brute strength pushed him up against the wall. His back hit hard, knocking even more air out of his lungs, and with the bastard’s hand cutting off his oxygen, he couldn’t breathe. With his free hand, Striker tried to pry the fingers off his neck. He refused to let go of the knife hand as gray sparkles played around the corners of his eyes. He tried to catch the guy’s leg and flip him down and off him, but the man was a bull and Striker couldn’t get purchase.