I wrench myself away from him and stand, furious. “Asshole,” I spit, storming away.
“I hate you too, baby,” he calls.
“Fuck off.”
3
JAMES
* * *
If I didn’t have a thirst for blood, I might be content staying here. It’s a far cry from the recent chaos of my life. It’s also surprisingly needed. A break from the bloodshed. A timeout from killing. A holiday I didn’t know I needed.
I strike the match and sit back, watching the wood burn down to my fingertip. I hiss and drop the cindered stick onto my naked thigh, blinking slowly as I flick it away and push my fingertips together, staring out at the water on a deep sigh. The ocean is calm, the sun blazing, casting blinding reflections across the still planes. There’s no breeze. Everything is so . . . still. So quiet.
It’s the calm before the storm, but I must delay the storm. Entering a war with this much restrained hatred within wouldn’t be wise. I’ve always operated on resentment. Let my fury be my fuel, but only I had been at risk of being hurt. Now, I have Beau, and I would’ve had our baby too, if she hadn’t been shot.
I shift in my chair, gulping back my anger, dampening its power. The Bear’s demise was always going to be grisly after he ordered the death of my family. Now he’s taken a part of my future. My skin tingles with a need that puts all previous needs to shame. I’ve lost count of the ways I’m going to kill him.
Just as soon as I find out who the fuck he is.
I was certain the safety deposit box would hold the answer. Was so sure Beau’s mum had figured it out and put his name away for safekeeping. Along with mine. The box was empty. And we have the only key.
The Bear knows what I look like—he knows the name behind The Enigma—but he still doesn’t know who I really am, or why I’ve spent years hunting him and his men. I look forward to enlightening him when I can look into his eyes. Or am I wrong? Does he already know? The safety deposit box.
We’ll soon find out.
When I figured out The Brit wasn’t dead, my next moves quickly fell into place. I don’t feel guilty for dragging Danny from the grave, because I didn’t drag him. He’s been dug up by a mutual nemesis. A nemesis he’s going to help me kill.
A thrilling shiver courses through me. Control it.
I look over my shoulder to the voile drapes hanging in the doors to the bedroom. Not until Beau is better. Stronger. It could be awhile. Her physical injuries will take weeks to heal, but the emotional damage? I’m not sure she can ever get over it.
I rise from my chair and go to the doors, pulling the drapes aside. She’s still curled on her side, snoozing. Always so tired. Drained. A shadow of the woman I met, which is an achievement on Beau’s part, because back then she was a whisper away from losing herself completely. Our whirlwind affair brought her into the light. Shady light, but light nonetheless. Now, I feel like I’ve pushed her back to the verge of complete darkness. I have to find her again. This isn’t just about me and my need for vengeance anymore. It’s about retribution for Beau. For the loss of her mother at the hands of the man who wiped out my family. And it’s about us being able to move forward without our demons suffocating us.
I pad over to the bed and crawl on behind her, slipping my arm over her waist, being careful of her wound and the cast on her arm. I get as close as I’m comfortable with, which isn’t close enough. I push my mouth to the back of her head and breathe in, closing my eyes. Finding my calm.
“I’ve decided,” she whispers sleepily.
“Decided what?”
“Whether I hate you or want to fuck you.”
I smile mildly as I open my eyes, and she moves slowly and carefully, turning over to face me. I reach forward and kiss her nose. “Tell me,” I order softly. Her eyes. How I wish they would burn as intensely as they once did when I put my mouth on her. Anywhere on her.
“Neither.” Her hand goes to my hair and drags through the waves. “I just want to love you and feel that love back.”
“Done deal.”
“Is it?” she asks, and I frown. “Because you seem distant.”
“Do not question my love for you, Beau,” I caution. “Definitely don’t do that.” Breaking away, I carefully ease her to her back. I straddle her thighs and start gently picking at the corner of the dressing on her stomach. I need to feel useful in a world I’m struggling to know how to exist. Look after her. Focus on her. Blood and death have to wait.
I peel away the gauze, flicking my eyes up to her every so often to check her face for discomfort. There’s none. She’s just watching me, quiet and calm.
When her wound is revealed, I’m forced to smother the rage it reveals with it. “I’m okay,” she says quietly as I reach for the antiseptic wipes on the nightstand. She peeks down. “It looks better.”
It’ll never look better, not as long as it’s there. I grunt and start tenderly cleaning around the area, and she relaxes on the pillow, going back to studying me. “What are you plotting?” she asks.
I don’t look up at her, concentrating on my task. “Do you need to ask?”
“No. But I want to hear.”
“All the gory details?” I cast the wipe aside.
“Yes.”
“Savage,” I murmur as I grab a new dressing. I haven’t decided every detail. I keep thinking of more gruesome ways. “How does it feel?”
She sighs tiredly, making her annoyance known. She can express her displeasure as much as she likes. From now on, she’s out of the firing line. “It feels like I’ve been shot.”
I flick her a warning look, taping around the edges of the dressing. “We’re going to dinner this evening.”
“With?” she asks, but we both know she doesn’t need to.
I humor her. “Danny and Rose.”
“The Angel-faced Assassin and his wife.” She looks at the ceiling. “And what will we talk about over dinner? How many people you’ve collectively killed? How many more you will?”
I push my fists into the mattress and lower myself until my mouth is hovering over hers. “You want to continue with the sarcasm?” I hitch a brow, and she rolls her eyes, relenting and pulling me down. I hold my hips high, avoiding resting on her wound. “No, Beau,” I whisper hoarsely, my body coming alive, sizzling.
“Please,” she begs, and it’s crushing. I know our intimacy helps her, but she’s so . . . broken. “I just need to feel a little bit normal.” She reaches between us and seizes my dick, and I jerk on a groan, my head dropping, my breathing diminishing.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Then don’t,” she whispers.
Fuck.
I push myself back, kneeling, and reach for the pain killers on the nightstand, popping two out. She opens her mouth, letting me put them on her tongue, swallowing them down without the need for water. Her good hand goes to her knickers and starts pushing them down. Insatiable. This is going to take some creative thinking.
I take over when they reach her knees, not wanting her to strain, dragging them off and casting them aside before pushing my boxers down. I roll her onto her side, getting a pillow and placing it in front of her stomach, before settling behind her and laying my arm over her body, testing the pad of protection. “Okay?” I ask, kicking my feet to get free of my boxers.