“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In my nightstand at home,” I answer as he takes my hand and pulls me toward the bathroom.
He closes the door behind us and goes to the shower, flipping it on. And I just stand like an idiot, my mind twisting painfully. He doesn’t look like he’s in the mood for questions or talking. So I’m expected to see what I saw, hear what I heard, and say nothing? He pulls his towel from his waist and tosses it in the tub before going to the sink and washing his hands thoroughly. Then he braces them on the edge of the vanity unit, leaning in, staring into his own eyes in the mirror. I don’t wonder what he’s thinking. Vengeance is thick in the air. His naked body looks lethal, every muscle pulsing, like he’s preparing for another attack.
This now, the man before me, the man with murder etched on every inch of his skin.
He’s The Enigma.
“Was it positive?” His eyes turn to me, and I frown, momentarily lost. Then it hits me like a sledgehammer square in the face, and my gaze falls onto the test still on the back of the toilet. My blood turns to ice. My heart starts racing. “Why are you panicking?” James asks, turning at the sink to face me.
“Why?” I motion to his blood-drenched torso. His beautiful torso that’s now as ruined as his back. Although it can be washed away, there is nothing that could clean my mind. “I’m an ex-cop, and I’m potentially pregnant by a murderer.”
He smiles a little, and it’s wholly inapt. “Potentially?” His ass rests on the vanity, his palms wedged on the edge.
I look at the back of the toilet again, to the white stick that could ruin us. And I laugh on the inside. We’re both ruined already. But that little stick and the potential lines on it could tip us. And there’s another thing. Us? For God’s sake, I barely know the man. I look at James. His eyebrows are high. Waiting. “I didn’t see the result,” I answer, fiddling with my towel, refastening it. “I was distracted by my boyfriend murdering someone.”
“Boyfriend?” he asks over a laugh, and I feel my cheeks heating. It’s fucking ridiculous.
“What the hell do you want me to call you?” I ask, as indignant as could be. “Lover? Better half? Murderer?” I am completely and utterly exasperated by the whole situation. I walk over to the tub and rest my ass on the edge, ignoring the blood-soaked towel behind me. I feel lightheaded all of a sudden. And hot. My skin is clammy, and it has nothing to do with the steaming shower running.
“So we still don’t know?’ he asks, looking over to the toilet. I follow his gaze and narrow my eyes on the white stick.
“No.”
“Are you going to look?”
“You do it,” I murmur, back to being plain terrified, the bludgeoning of a man downstairs long forgotten. My boyfriend’s true identity forgotten. This somehow feels more serious. Why doesn’t James seem as worried as I am? He’s standing there stark naked, his solid arms braced and splendid, all casual, appearing as impassive as I know he can be.
“Fine.” He pushes himself off the unit and takes his sweet time wandering over to the toilet. I don’t think he’s nervous or stalling. I feel like he’s simply drawing out my torture and enjoying it. I scowl at him as he stares at me, blindly reaching for the stick. Then he looks down, and I hold my breath. His face is blank. I can’t read it at all. God damn, what is it?
But I can’t ask; I’m too scared of the answer. My lungs are screeching for some oxygen, my heart begging for some respite. “Negative,” he says quietly, and all the air leaves me loudly, my entire being deflating.
“Oh thank God,” I breathe, reaching for my chest and massaging the lingering pain away. I look to the ceiling, and I smile, so fucking happy. I will not let that happen again. No fucking way. How could I have been so careless? James drops the stick in the trash can by the toilet. “I’m sorry for putting you through that.”
He nods, stepping into the shower stall, letting the hot flow wash away the blood all over his hands and chest. He doesn’t ask me to join him, doesn’t talk, but his eyes hardly stray from me the whole time he cleans himself.
My ass starts to numb on the edge of the tub, and I stand, moving across to the toilet and lowering to the seat. “Did The Bear send that man?” I ask.
“Yes.” He reaches for a towel and steps out, drying.
“How did they know where to find you?”
“I fucked up.”
“Am I in danger?” It’s a crazy thing to ask when I’m sleeping with one of the country’s most wanted men. Utterly crazy, and yet look at all this crazy going on.
“You’re the safest woman in this world, Beau Hayley.” He secures the towel around his waist. “Nothing can harm you.”
“You can,” I whisper.
His movements falter, and he glances up at me. But he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t correct me, and that terrifies me more than any truths he could share.
I wake to the sound of my cell ringing. The feel of it vibrating registers, and I pat around my body until I lay my hands on it. I hold it up and squint at the screen until Dexter’s name forms. My hand plummets back to the mattress with my phone. I can’t talk to him now. Not only because I’m still half asleep.
I roll onto my side and find the space next to me is empty. The room is dusky. The morning sky in the distance is red. Red at night, sailor’s delight.
But it’s morning.
I grab my sling off the nightstand and edge to the side as I get it on, before following my feet to the stairs. The first thing I see are the bags by the door. Travel bags. And any signs of murder have vanished. No dead guy. No blood.
I see James below on the couch in his boxers, sitting forward, a candle burning on the table before him. He’s watching the flame intently. Studying it. Mesmerized by it. He takes his hand and glides it through the air above the glass, back and forth slowly, over and again. Heat. Burn.
His scarred body.
He eventually stops directly above the flame and holds it there, his torso tensing. He’s hurting.
I don’t call out, don’t disturb him. I’m rapt, watching him withstand the heat. Then suddenly he pulls away and looks down at the center of his palm. “When you’ve been burned alive,” he whispers, looking up at me, “nothing can hurt as much.” He rests back and gives me a look that suggests I should go to him. So I do.
The moment I’m close enough, he takes my hand and pulls me onto his lap, positioning me just so, my back to his front. My eyes root to the flickering flame as he takes my arm. “Nothing will ever hurt you like this hurt you.” He draws faint lines up and down the scar tissue. “Not physically or mentally.”
“I’m in a mindfuck that hurts quite bad right now.”
“Your mindfuck has nothing on this,” he says, holding up my deformed arm in front of us before sliding his palm down to my hand and lacing our fingers. “That’s why you’re here.”
“That’s why I’m here,” I reply on a whisper. “And because I love you.”
“And because you love me.” He brings our entwined hands to his mouth and kisses them. “And I’m hurting now more than I thought possible again, because I love you too.”