From one second to the next, he disappears, leaving me alone in the room.
Alone and shaking badly.
I sit up in bed and reach for my glasses on the nightstand. When I get them on, I look around the room in disbelief. It’s exactly the same as it was when I went to sleep.
Except now it smells like big, rugged male and unresolved sexual tension.
I rip off the glasses, turn over, bury my face into the pillow, and scream.
It doesn’t help.
I still want him.
Him, the assassin who’s going to kill Declan.
Him, the asshole who threatened to kill me.
Him, the killer, stalker, walk-through-solid-walls son of a bitch who touches me like I’m made of glass and kisses like he’s starving.
Man, I thought I had a messed up romantic life before, but this is some next level shit right here.
Rolling back over, I shove my glasses on again and rise from bed. Heart hammering, I open the door and peek out into the hallway. It’s dark and silent. All is still.
Oh, god—what if it’s so still because Spider and Kieran are already dead?
With a strangled sound of horror, I tear down the hallway into the main living area. It’s dark in here, too, but there’s a blue glow from a cable box near the TV that lets me see where I’m going. I run into the kitchen and hit the lights, expecting to see a trail of blood on the floor or bloody handprints or brain matter decorating the walls.
When I find neither, I stop to drag in a breath. I lean against the counter, bracing myself to go search the rest of the bedrooms. Preparing myself mentally to deal with whatever carnage I might find.
“What’s the craic, lass?”
I jump, scream, and whirl around.
Spider stands in the doorway of the kitchen, blinking sleepily.
His white dress shirt is rolled up his forearms and open at the throat. His jaw is shadowed with stubble. His hair is mussed.
There are no visible bullet holes in him.
I’m so relieved, I nearly slide to the floor. Instead, I press a hand over my thundering heart and start laughing weakly.
He frowns.
“Sorry. God, I’m so sorry, I just…I thought…”
“Tell anyone I was here, and they die.”
Recalling Malek’s warning, I swallow nervously and avert my eyes. “Um. I was hungry.”
“Hungry,” he repeats suspiciously, looking me up and down.
I make my voice firm, stand straighter, and manage to look him in the eye. “Yep. Starving, in fact.”
“You had a big meal not three hours ago.”
Shit. He would have to remember what time it was when I scarfed down my dinner.
“Don’t shame me for having a hearty appetite, Spider. I like to eat.” I saunter over to the fridge, pull open the door, and stare inside.
This is when I realize that all I’m wearing is the short T-shirt and white cotton undies I went to bed in.
White cotton undies that are probably soaked right through.
I shut the fridge door, turn around, fold my hands in front of my crotch, and force a smile. “On second thought, I think I’ll go back to bed. It’s never a good idea to go to sleep on a full stomach. See you in the morning.”
I walk back to my room as casually as I can, feeling Spider’s gaze on me the whole time.
I can’t go back to sleep. I lie there for hours in the dark, staring at the ceiling, starting at every little noise, expecting Malek to appear out of thin air at any moment.
Appear and kill me. Or kiss me again.
It’s a coin toss at this point.
In the morning, I’m dragging ass. I shower and dress in the same clothes I wore yesterday, because they’re the only ones I have with me. There are things in the closet, clothes left over from whoever might have stayed here before, but they’re all too big and smell like cigarettes.
I don’t know if I can face Spider’s too-knowing eyes again, so I stay in my room most of the day. Kieran knocks on the door in the afternoon, bringing a tray of food. When he asks how I’m doing, I don’t lie.
“I feel like I’ve been run over by a truck.”
His smile is warm and understanding. “It’ll be all right, lass. Try not to worry. If ye like, I’ll be happy to bring ye a wee nip of whiskey. That always helps set my head straight.”
He’s so nice. Him and Spider both.
I really hope Malek doesn’t kill them.
“Thanks, Kieran. But I think I’d rather keep my head sharp, if you know what I mean. This situation is constantly evolving.”
He nods. “Aye. Is there anything else you need?”
“Clothes. My computer. A frontal lobotomy.”
Chuckling, he says, “I can help with the first two, lass. Yer on yer own with the third.”
“You can get my laptop? I left it in Bermuda.”
“The lads have cleared out the house and vehicles. They’ll make a stop here tonight on their way to Declan.”
“Have you heard from him? Is he okay?”
If my tone is too tight with worry, Kieran doesn’t notice. His shrug is nonchalant.
“He’s right as rain. Musterin’ the troops, makin’ plans. You know. Boss business.”
I hope that boss business includes wearing full-body armor and a bulletproof helmet at all times, but I don’t say that out loud.
Kieran leaves. I eat the food he brought me. I pace. I struggle with the idea of telling him and Spider that Malek broke in, but can’t decide if that bastard assassin would know if I blabbed.
What if he bugged my room?
Or the whole safe house, for that matter? What if he installed secret cameras? What if he can transport himself telepathically and overhear everything that’s going on in here?
I can’t discount the possibility. He seems capable of anything.
Ultimately, I decide not to say a word. I refuse to be responsible for anyone getting hurt. Malek might hurt them anyway, but I don’t have control over that. I don’t want it to be because he told me not to do something, and I didn’t listen.
He seems like the kind of man disobedience greatly displeases.
Around nine o’clock, Spider knocks on my door.
“Hey,” I say when I open up. “How are you?”
He gazes at me for a silent beat before saying, “Grand. You?”
“Same.”
“Got your bag. Laptop, too.” He lifts my duffel. “Where should I put it?”
“Oh, great! On the desk is fine, thanks.”
I open the door wide and let him in. He’s dressed in his immaculate suit and tie, not a hair out of place, and his angular jaw is clean-shaven. I guess Declan has a dress code for these guys, because black Armani is all they ever wear.
He sets the duffel bag on the desk and turns back to me.
Then he just stands there silently, looking uncomfortable.
“What’s up?”
“I think I owe you an apology.”
That catches me completely off guard. I look at him with my eyebrows lifted. “Me? Why?”
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, clears his throat, then glances at the door. “For catching you last night in the kitchen in your kex. You seemed awful embarrassed.”
I get that “kex” must mean underwear and feel relieved.
Unless it means “soaking wet underwear,” in which case I’m fucking mortified.
My laugh is small and nervous “It’s, um…no biggie.”
He glances back at me. The tips of his ears turn red.
“I didn’t see anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.” After a short pause, he corrects himself. “I mean, I didn’t see much.”
I slap a hand over my eyes. “Jesus. Could you make this any more painful?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted. Now please go, so I can die of shame by myself.”
“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, lass.”
His voice has gained a husky, unfamiliar edge. I think he’s trying to compliment me.
And now my ears are red, too.
I slide my hand from my eyes down to my mouth. I stare at him in silence. Then I drop my hand to my side and sigh. “Well. Thank you. I think. Can we please never talk about this again?”
He runs a hand over his hair. “Aye.” He turns to leave, but turns back at the door. “Your sister wants to speak with you. She asked me to have you call her.”
“Tell my sister that I’d rather eat a shit sandwich than talk to her.”
He presses his lips together to keep from laughing and nods. “Will do.”
“And stop thinking that we’re alike. We’re nothing alike.”
He holds my gaze, looking like he’s arguing with himself over something. Finally, he says, “No, you’re not. Except for that lion’s blood that runs in the family.”
I say quietly, “Thank you for that. But I’m not a lion. Compared to her, I’m…a cub.”
“A baby lion is still a lion.”
After a moment of awkward silence, he turns and walks out.
I become more determined than ever that if it’s within my power, I won’t let Malek hurt him.
Spider will make someone a very good partner one day. He doesn’t deserve to get shot on babysitting duty for his boss’s fiancée’s dorky younger sister.
I work on my laptop for a few hours until I get sleepy. I dig the final box of Twizzlers from my bag and eat the whole thing. Then I take a shower, standing under the hot spray for a long time, thinking about everything that’s happened since I left San Francisco. Thinking about what I’ll say to Malek when I see him next time.
Because I know there will be a next time.
I know it in my bones.
Whatever’s happening between us is unresolved. I know he wants to hate me, and maybe part of him does. But there’s another part of him that doesn’t.
Judging by last night, that part of him is in his pants.
And I don’t know what to do about any of it. This entire situation is so far out of my league, I can hardly think straight.
I’m just an introvert who loves books, candy, and arguing with strangers on the internet. My idea of excitement is starting a new Netflix series. I live in one of the most exciting cities in the world, yes, but everyone I hang out with is about as thrilling as stale bread.
They’re computer geeks. Video game addicts. Coffee shop philosophers with man buns, degrees in the arts, and maybe an extra set of genitals.
Okay, that part’s exciting, but you get my point.
There are no gangsters in my world.
There’s no guns, violence, safe houses, or private jets.
Most importantly, there are no large, terrifying, beautiful Russian assassins with vengeance on their minds breaking into my bedroom at all hours of the night to overpower me with testosterone and kiss me to within an inch of my life.
I don’t know what to do.
If I called one of my friends and told them the story of the past week, they’d ask me why I was hoarding my Molly and demand I send them some.
No one would believe it.
I don’t believe it.
What I need is a plan.
Though I hate to even think like this, that’s what Sloane would do. She’d assess the situation and make a plan. A plan that would crush the competition and leave a smoking path of destruction in her wake.
The only smoking path of destruction I’ve managed to create so far has been in my underpants when Malek was kissing me.
By the time I step out of the shower, I’m a prune. I still don’t have a strategy. I towel dry my hair and body, then wrap the towel around myself and brush my teeth.
Then I wipe a clear circle in the steam on the mirror over the sink and almost die of a heart attack.
Malek towers behind me, pale eyes burning under lowered brows.
