Kill for You (Warrior for Her #2)

Chapter Ten

Faith

" A re you nervous, angel?" Octavio asks, watching from a chair as I pace in restless circles around the cramped examination room at the doctor's office.

"No." I frown, unease drifting through me. "Yes. I don't know." Except for at the hospital, I can't remember the last time I saw a doctor. Have I ever seen one? I’m not sure. But I know I don't like being poked and prodded and stared at like a science experiment. It's unnerving.

At least Octavio isn't making me see the same man I saw at the hospital. I'm still mad at him for telling Octavio my secrets.

" Estoy aquí , conejita ." Octavio pushes to his feet and reaches out to snag my arm. He looms over me, but I don't feel threatened or small. Just…peaceful.

"Can't you wait outside?" I ask, pulling away from him and quickly pacing to the opposite side of the tiny room.

His brows pull down, hurt washing through his sepia eyes.

"Sorry." I lean my forehead up against the wall, trying to calm my nerves. "I didn't mean that."

"You're afraid," he guesses. When I don't say anything, he prowls toward me, his footfalls loud against the gleaming linoleum. He turns me slowly to face him and then takes a step back, giving me space.

He's been giving me a lot of that the last couple of days, always leaving plenty of room between us. I think I hurt him the other night, but I don't know how to take it back now. I've been leaving my door open, hoping he would understand that I'm sorry for what I said and that I trust him as much as I can…but he hasn't even mentioned it. He hasn't brought up what I said about what my mother did to Nikolai either. Instead, we do this careful dance around one another every day. It's making me crazy.

"Do you remember the Apostles' Creed?" Patience and understanding reflect in his beautiful eyes as he stares down at me. He looks so damn handsome today. His sharp jawline and full lips are lethal, especially paired with his crisp blue button-up and faded jeans.

Does he even realize how hot he is? Probably not. I don't think he even cared how the women in the waiting room and the nurses all stared at him. He was too busy glowering at everyone who got too close to me to bother with anyone else.

"Angel?" He quirks a brow.

What was the question? The Apostles' Creed? Oh, right.

"Um, yes. I remember." I've been saying it every night before bed, and again each time I wake up from yet another nightmare. I'm not even sure if I believe in God. It seems to me that, if there is an all-powerful being out there, he's not doing a very good job of being a beacon of light for humanity. Or maybe we're not doing a very good job following him. Either way, I think maybe he's given up on us ever getting it right and has washed his hands of us. But I still repeat the prayer like it'll save me. Even if it doesn't lessen the fear quaking through me, it gives me something else to focus on. I suppose that's the point, anyway, isn’t it?

"Recite it for me."

"In Russian or English?"

One dark brow climbs a little higher. "You remember both?"

I nod.

"English first."

I take a deep breath and recite the prayer to him.

"Very good," Octavio murmurs like he's impressed. "Now in Russian."

I murmur the words in Russian, trying to make sure my accent is right. Even though my mother was part Russian, she never spoke the language. I learned most of what I know from watching and listening to Nikolai and his men. I learned a lot of things from listening to them, most of which I'd kill to forget.

"You have an excellent memory," Octavio says. There's a question in his gaze, like he wants to know how I remembered the prayer. It's a skill I picked up a long time ago, one that helped keep me alive. I found that you learn a lot about people if you listen and remember. It helped me know when to make myself scarce and when Nikolai’s men were less likely to punish me for some perceived misdeed.

"Thank you," I mumble instead of sharing that with him.

A sharp tap on the door makes me jump.

" Está bien. Estoy aquí, " Octavio reminds me, reaching out to touch my wrist before he calls for the doctor to come in.

The doctor is short and balding, with bushy brows and a kind smile. He's barely any taller than I am. "You must be, Ms. Donovan," he says, looking up from my chart to smile at me. He doesn't try to shake my hand though, which I appreciate. "I'm Dr. Patterson. And who did you bring with you today?"

"I'm Octavio Hernandez," Octavio says in his deep growl.

"Boyfriend?" Dr. Patterson asks, looking between the two of us.

"Caretaker," Octavio corrects, but doesn't explain further.

Dr. Patterson nods before turning to me again. "I understand you've had a rough time lately, Ms. Donovan. If you're okay with it, I'm going to remove the stitches from your hands today and draw some blood to see how everything else looks. The nurse weighed you already. You've gained seven pounds, which is excellent news. How is your appetite?"

"It's okay."

"What are you eating?"

"She likes fruit and chocolate, but doesn't eat very much meat or bread," Octavio says, taking me by surprise. I didn't realize he paid that close attention to what I ate. But maybe I should have expected it. He seems to pay attention to everything.

"I like chicken and shrimp."

"Those are good choices," Dr. Patterson says, jotting notes in my chart. "Adding some red meat and whole grains to your diet certainly wouldn't hurt, but so long as you're gaining weight and your bloodwork looks okay, I don't think there's any reason to force it on you." He glances up from my chart. "Keep an eye on the sugar intake though. Gaining weight is important, but we don't want to overload your system with too much sugar. It could cause problems down the line."

"Okay," I agree.

Octavio grunts like he doesn't agree, but he doesn't say anything.

"If you'll hop up on the table, I'll take a look at your hands and get those stitches out."

I glance nervously at Octavio, my heart fluttering like the wings of a bird against my ribcage.

"She doesn't like to be touched," he tells Dr. Patterson, placing his big body between the two of us to prevent the much smaller man from approaching me. "Can one of your nurses remove the stitches?"

"Y-yes, of course," Dr. Patterson mumbles, clearly caught off guard by the request that sounds more like a command than an actual question. "But I still need to examine her."

Octavio tenses like he's going to argue.

"It's okay," I whisper, placing my hand on his back. "I'll be okay."

He turns to face me, a question in his eyes. "You sure, conejita ?"

I nod and then bite my lip and look at Dr. Patterson. "He can stay in here with me, right?"

"That's fine," Dr. Patterson says, smiling at me in patient understanding. "Hop up on the table and we'll get started."

Octavio helps me climb up onto the little examination table covered with paper. Once I'm settled, he wedges his big body between my left thigh and the wall, placing a steadying hand on my arm. He stays right there, hovering over me like a bodyguard while Dr. Patterson checks me over, looking in my ears and my mouth and then listening to my lungs and testing my reflexes. He touches me as little as possible and makes sure to explain everything he's going to do before he does it. It's not exactly comfortable, but it's better than I expected. The doctor in the emergency room didn't explain anything.

"Everything looks good," Dr. Patterson says when he's done examining me. He jots another couple of notes in my chart and then glances up at me, his expression serious. "But I understand that you've been through some pretty serious trauma. Have you thought about seeing anyone about what you went through?"

"She's seeing one of the psychologists we employ."

"We?"

"LAPD."

"Ah." Dr. Patterson glances between the two of us again. "You're a police officer?"

"Detective."

Dr. Patterson nods and jots another couple notes before flipping through my chart. He frowns, looking up at me again. "We don't seem to have any of your family history or previous medical records, Ms. Donovan."

"There aren't any," I whisper, my cheeks burning with humiliation.

"Excuse me?"

"Her father died when she was six. Her mother was physically abusive. To her knowledge, she hasn't seen a doctor since she lived with her father," Octavio tells him, his voice brusque and businesslike. He stands upright, looming over the smaller man like a dangerous animal even as he squeezes my arm gently. "St. Francis ran a battery of tests on her while she was hospitalized. You should have those results."

"Yes, I have those here." Dr. Patterson flips through the file again, swallowing hard like Octavio makes him nervous. He glances at me and then at Octavio again, seeming to decide something. His expression firms, his spine straightening. "Can I be frank?"

"You may."

"A lot of her fractures healed badly. Without intervention, they're likely to cause problems in the future. Bone deterioration and chronic pain are obvious concerns, as are bone deformities. There isn't a whole lot we can do to correct some of the old breaks since they've been left without treatment for too long. But some can be corrected." He looks from Octavio to me. "I won't lie to you and say it'll be a painless process or that it'll be an easy fix, but to avoid difficulty later, you need to seriously consider your options, Ms. Donovan. Particularly where the old breaks in your tibia, your humerus, and your ulna—your shin, upper arm, and forearm—are concerned."

I pull my gaze from his, my stomach churning uncomfortably.

"Do they cause you any pain?"

"Sometimes." I stare down at my hands, refusing to look up. I can feel the heat of Octavio's gaze burning into me. "Mostly when it rains or if I get too cold." The pain is always there, but I've lived with it for so long, I don't really notice it anymore unless the weather takes a turn, or I don't stay warm enough. "Um…there are bumps though, or knots, I guess. On my shin."

"Anywhere else?" Dr. Patterson asks.

"My ribcage and my foot."

I hear him flipping through my chart again. "I'm not sure there's anything we can do about your ribcage without causing further damage, but surgery to repair the break in your shin may help alleviate some of the pain and reduce the size of the knot. Does your foot bother you?"

"Not really."

"Do you recall how long ago it was broken?"

"Three years ago."

Octavio goes completely still beside me, barely even seeming to breathe.

"I fell down some stairs."

Octavio shifts beside me, a little growl emanating from his throat.

"The fracture there appears to have healed mostly like it should have, except for one small section. If it doesn't cause you pain, I'm not sure surgical intervention would be ideal, as it probably wouldn't eliminate the knot," Dr. Patterson says. "But if it ever starts to give you problems, we can certainly have an orthopedic surgeon take a look and see what he suggests."

"Okay," I agree.

"I'll get Shelly in here." He rises to his feet. "I'd like to see you again in a few weeks. Think about your options, and we'll discuss them a little more next time you come in."

"Thank you."

Dr. Patterson lets himself out of the room.

"You didn't fall on your own, did you?" Octavio asks as soon as the door closes behind him. His tone is full of barely suppressed rage, making me shiver. "Who pushed you, conejita ?"

"N-no one."

"Tell me."

"No one pushed me," I whisper, staring holes in the linoleum at his booted feet, which are planted shoulder-width apart. "I dropped a laundry basket I was carrying. The laundry detergent spilled on the floor. Ivan got angry and threw the bottle at me. I slipped trying to avoid it and fell down the stairs."

"Ivan," he says. "Ivan Sedov?"

I nod.

He's utterly silent and unmoving for a long moment and then he expels a heavy breath and tilts my chin up until I'm forced to look at him. He has that look on his face again—the one that reminds me of a lethal warrior. When he speaks, his tone is gentle. "Thank you for telling me," he says simply, and then leans forward to brush his lips across my temple.

Before I can say anything, he pulls back, reaching into his pocket when his phone rings. I watch as he frowns and puts it to his ear. The nurse, Shelly, comes in while he's talking on it. He moves out of the way to give her room to work but keeps his eyes on me the entire time.

Shelly snips the stitches from my hand and then covers them with Band-Aids before she draws my blood into several little vials. I turn my head, avoiding looking too closely at the blood. Ever since the shooting, the sight of blood makes my head swim, and my stomach churn.

Octavio ends his conversation as she's finishing up and shoots me a look I can't read.

"I need to take care of something at work," he says when she hands me the slip to check out at the front desk and leaves the room. "And you can't come with me."

"Okay." I never go with him when he's doing work things.

"Roman and Luke are on a raid with the SWAT team right now," he reminds me, striding toward me. "I can't leave you with them."

"Oh." I lick my lips, understanding dawning. There's no one to watch me. If I can convince him that I'll be fine on my own for a few hours, I can slip out while he's gone, never to be seen again. I open my mouth to do exactly that, and then his eye twitches like the thought of me not being safe stresses him out.

My resolve to find a way to run crumbles, unable to withstand the powerful desire to ease the fierce man standing in front of me. He matters to me, even if he shouldn't. He might not want me…but I think it would hurt him if I disappeared without a trace. It’d eat at him like his sister's disappearance does.

I can't do that to him. I won’t. Even if it means giving up my chance at freedom, I won’t be the reason he spends the rest of his life feeling like he failed.

I lied to him the other day when I told him that all I want is freedom. And I lied when I told him that I don’t kid myself about being a means to an end to him. Maybe that’s what I am…but it’s not what I want.

I want him . Even if it’s wrong, I want him.

"Where am I going?" I ask, giving in to what I've been trying to fight for days now. Even if all I ever get are moments like these, when I can read in his eyes how much he cares about me, I'll gladly take them. And when he's no longer in my life, maybe it’ll be enough to know that, once upon a time, he felt something for me, too.

"I'm going to take you to Mila, conejita . She's at the ATF's headquarters with Roman's boss, Finn Bethel." He doesn't sound too thrilled with the idea. If anything, he sounds like he'd rather bite off his own tongue than take me there. But he doesn't have a choice. Which means I don't have one either. Not if it means hurting him.

"Let's go," I whisper, climbing from the examination table far more bravely than I feel.

Finn Bethel isn't a giant. He's whatever comes in above giant on the food chain. He's about the same height as Roman, but he's somehow even more massive. His black slacks are stretched tight across tree-trunk sized thighs. His blue button-down strains to encase the muscles in his upper body. His bald head gleams under the fluorescent lights in his office. So does his flawless ebony skin. He looks like he belongs at the top of a beanstalk or at an Ironman competition instead of in the middle of the ATF's offices. But his brown eyes are full of kindness, and his smile is warm as he introduces himself to me.

He stays on the other side of the desk, but my fight or flight response kicks in, the desire to hide behind Octavio pounding through me with every beat of my heart. I plant my feet, refusing to give in to the urge. I can't go through the rest of my life afraid of every man I meet. Especially when I know all the way to my bones that Octavio would never leave me with this man if he didn't genuinely believe I'd be safe here.

"Hi, Agent Bethel." I marshal my courage, giving him a tentative smile.

"Call me Finn, sweetheart," he says, easing himself back down into his chair. I think he knows I'm nervous and doesn't want to overwhelm me. The chair groans like it's in danger of collapsing beneath him, but it holds firm. "I've heard a lot about you. It's nice to finally meet you."

"You too." I give him another weak smile before looking around. His office is roomy, but it's a mess. There are casefiles and stacks of paper on two folding tables against the walls. Boards with photos and notes hang above them. Even the corner of his desk is stacked high with files. Shields with ATF emblazoned across the front are stacked in the far corner, alongside a stack of storage boxes with more papers peeking out.

"Are you hanging out with us today?" Mila asks, giving me a bright, happy smile. She's lounging in an executive-style office chair, her feet propped up on a matching chair. Her blonde hair is up in a messy bun. She's wearing leggings and an oversized T-shirt and looks as comfortable seated beside Agent Bethel as she does at home.

"Um…I think so."

Octavio reaches out to touch my hand, steadying me. "Something came up, and I need to go," he explains to Agent Bethel. "Would you mind keeping an eye on her until I get done?"

"Not at all. Mila and I were just catching up on Nailed It ." Agent Bethel's eyes twinkle with amusement. "But if anyone asks, we're both working."

"Especially if Roman asks," Mila says with a soft laugh. She wiggles around in her chair until she's able to slide her feet out of the one pulled up in front of her. "Want to watch it with us? Hi, Octavio."

"Hi, pequena ." Octavio smiles at her before turning to me, his gaze serious. "Will you be okay, conejita ?"

"I'll be fine."

He studies me for a moment. "You have your phone?"

"Yes."

"Call me if you need anything."

"I will," I promise. "But I'll be okay here."

Even after I tell him that, he still hesitates, clearly reluctant to leave me here with Agent Bethel and Mila. His indecision makes my heart flutter. He may not want me like I want him, but he cares about what happens to me.

I reach out and lay my hand on his arm, trying to comfort him as he's done for me so many times since coming to my rescue. The combination of heat and smooth skin over hard muscle sends energy humming through me. My nipples harden, and heat pools low in my stomach.

" Prometo que estoy bien . Te confío mi seguridad ." I promise I'll be okay. I trust you with my safety. It's not the apology I owe him for telling him I was a means to an end for him, but it's as close as I can get right now.

His eyes darken, and his nostrils flare as the words leave my lips. He stares down at me for a long moment, looking fierce and gentle and so damn handsome I want to burrow into his arms and stay there. But whatever I'm feeling for him is one-sided…isn't it?

Sometimes, when he's looking at me like he is right now, I'm not so sure. But I'm not brave enough to ask him that question when the sting of his last rejection still lingers. Especially not with an audience present.

Instead, I take a step back, putting a little distance between us.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, little bunny."

"Okay."

Octavio nods at Agent Bethel and Mila and then strides out the door, leaving the three of us alone. I stay right where I'm at, trying to calm the way my heart pounds. I feel overheated, like the intense look in Octavio’s eyes heated me from the inside out.

He makes me feel that way so easily.

I'm falling in love with him. I think I have been for days. But that fact doesn't terrify me nearly as much as I know it probably should. In my world, love is pain. It claws and gnashes and hurts like hell.

This doesn’t feel like that. And yet…it has the potential of ending up somewhere just as bad. Perhaps somewhere even worse. Because out of everyone in the world, I think Octavio may have the power to hurt me more than anyone else ever has.

I’m giving him that power. It’s a terrifying prospect.

I look up to find Agent Bethel watching me, his expression unreadable. He notices me looking at him and smiles, though it doesn't quite meet his eyes this time. I think he's worried, but I don't know why.

Before I can think too deeply about it, Mila speaks up, demanding I come and sit beside her.

"Have you ever seen Nailed It ?" she asks once I'm seated.

I shake my head.

She claps her hands like she's excited, practically bouncing in her chair. "You're going to love it! They make really fancy desserts, but they suck at baking, so everything always ends up either looking or tasting terrible. The judges are hilarious."

We settle in, and Agent Bethel hits the button on his monitor, starting the show. As Mila promised, it is funny, but I find my mind drifting as we watch. I glance around the office again, trying to imagine myself in an office like this. I gave up thinking about the future a long time ago. It hurt to consider what my life might have been when, every day, I fought just to survive. But I want a normal life. I want to get my GED, go to college, and then have a career of some sort and a family.

Maybe I won't go into law enforcement, I decide as my gaze falls on the stacks of files and paperwork all over the office. It's a little overwhelming to see how much work Agent Bethel has in front of him. Octavio and Roman are just as busy as he is, and with a lot of the same cases.

I look up at the board hanging over the table of folders, trying to make sense of it. One section has a map with little pins stuck in it. Beside each pin is a handwritten note with names on it. As I'm working my way around it visually, trying to figure out what it is, my eyes land on a cluster of pins with a list of familiar names. Horror wells up from the pit of my stomach as realization dawns.

"Are all of these shootings?" I blurt, unable to stop myself.

"They are," Agent Bethel says when I point at the map.

There has to be at least two hundred pins stuck in the map.

"They're all gang and cartel shootings," Mila says, her voice sad. "Finn runs the gang unit, so he keeps up with all of the gang-related crimes. There have been a lot of them since el Demonio went on their power trip."

I scrutinize the map, trying to process that. Part of me wants to feel nothing for the victims because they're just like Nikolai and his men. I know what men like that are capable of, but the other part of me hurts for the victims anyway. So many of them are so young. They're sucked in before they're even old enough to understand exactly what they're signing up to do. How many of those kids would have chosen something different if their paths hadn't crossed with Nikolai or someone like him?

"These are all el Demonio victims?" I ask.

"Most of them," Agent Bethel says.

"Can I move closer to the map?"

"Of course." He seems surprised by the request.

I stand up and walk toward the map, frowning. Up close, I notice that there are lines drawn on the map in pencil, with the names of gangs and cartels noted. Some of them have been erased and redrawn often enough that the paper has started to tear. I focus on two pins just on the other side of Nikolai’s territory.

"These aren't el Demonio victims," I murmur after a moment, pointing at the pins.

"No?" Agent Bethel steps up beside me, making me jump. I didn't even realize he'd moved. "Sorry," he murmurs, holding his hands up as if to show he's unarmed. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's okay." I steel myself against the pounding urge to put more distance between us and point at the map instead. "I don't think el Demonio killed these two. I think the Bratva did."

"What makes you think so?"

I hesitate for a brief second. "I heard them talking about it at the bar one night. Mikhail Marozava caught them dealing too close to Nikolai’s territory." They didn't realize I was close enough to overhear what they were saying. As soon as Ivan realized I was there, he slammed a hand down on the table, silencing everyone. He was extra vicious the next day, going out of his way to make my life miserable.

"I'll have someone look into it," Agent Bethel says and then eyes me for a moment, seemingly deep in thought. "I haven't cleared this with Octavio yet, but if you're willing to look at it, I have a book of pictures of suspected Bratva members we haven't been able to identify. Maybe you could help fill in some blanks for us."

"I'll look at it."

"You don't have to do it right now, sweetheart. I'll send it with you and Octavio," Agent Bethel says.

I look at the map again, thinking. Octavio seems reluctant to ask me very much about Nikolai, but I promised to help him. I don't know if I can give him the information he needs, but I've been with Nikolai long enough to know who they are and what they're about. What I know might not give him what he's looking for, but if it helps him…well, I want to help him. More than I ever expected I would.

"I can make a list of Nikolai’s men, if you think it might help," I offer.

Agent Bethel smiles at me. "That would be a tremendous help."

"Okay."

"Knock, knock." I peek inside Octavio's office to find him ensconced at his desk, his dark head bent over a case file as he jots notes. He looks weary in a way I haven't seen before, like the weight of the world really does rest on his shoulders. I don't know what he had to go take care of today, but he's been quiet and distracted since he picked me up from Roman's a couple of hours ago. Whatever he had to do, I don't think he liked doing it.

He lifts his head, those sepia eyes falling on me. There's a furrow between his brows, but it clears when he sees me standing there. He tosses his pen down and leans back in his chair. "You don't have to knock, conejita . You're welcome in here anytime."

"I didn't want to bother you. I just came to ask if you have a notebook and a pencil I can have."

"You need paper?"

I nod, stepping into his office. His scent is all over the room. It immediately loosens knots in my shoulders that I hadn't even noticed were there. I still don't understand how someone can smell like safety and peace, but he does. It's far more erotic than it should be.

He rifles through a drawer for a minute and then materializes with a spiral notebook. He plucks a pen out of the cup on his desk and then holds it and the paper out to me. "What are you writing, little bunny?"

"Um…a list." I reach out to take the paper and pen from him, but he doesn't let them go.

"What kind of list?" he asks, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Agent Bethel said I could make a list of what I know about Nikolai’s men." I tug on the notebook, but he still doesn't let it go. "I'm supposed to be helping you," I remind him.

He grunts but doesn't say anything.

"I want to help."

"Did Finn ask you to do this?"

"No." I frown at him. "I offered to do it. I want to help you, but you never really ask me anything. I thought if I made a list of who they are and what I know about them, maybe all of you could use it."

He grunts again, reluctantly releasing his hold on the notebook. I quickly pull it out of reach before he can decide to take it back.

"Do…do you not want my help?" I muster up the courage to ask, clutching the notebook and pen to my chest.

"No."

I flinch, taking a step backward as soon as the word leaves his lips in a rough bark of sound.

" Mierda. I didn't mean it like that, Faith." He tips his head back in his chair, sighing heavily. He looks so frustrated and out of sorts, but I don't think it's directed at me. Whatever he had to do today is stressing him out more than usual.

"What's wrong?" I ask, moving a step closer to his desk.

"The cop I told you about the other day…I had to bring him in for questioning today."

"Oh. I'm sorry." I hesitate, not sure how much I'm allowed to ask him before quickly deciding that he'll tell me if I push too far. "Did he do what you were worried about?"

"I'm not sure yet, but it doesn't look good for him." He tips his head forward to look at me again. His eyes are clouded with confusion, his lips pulled down into a frown. "He's a good cop."

"You found evidence that he killed those men?"

Octavio hesitates for a moment and then nods. "I believe so. A motorcycle gang murdered his girlfriend's family over a territory dispute. The suspects in their deaths were found dead a few days later. I found evidence that links him to the crime scene."

"You don't want to find out he did it, do you?"

"What makes you say that?" He cocks his head to the side, studying me in avid curiosity.

"You seem upset about it," I say and then feel stupid for saying it. Maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see. "Ignore me. I don't know what I'm talking about."

"No," he says, his lips quirking up into a half-smile, "you're right. I like the guy. I don't want to find out he's guilty, but as you reminded me, I have to follow the trail and see where it leads. I don't relish doing it though. He was just a kid at the time."

"How old was he?"

"Twenty-one."

"Ouch," I mutter before I can stop myself. I'm twenty-one. Guess that solves the mystery of whether this attraction is one-sided or not. He still views me as a kid. A little piece of my heart breaks. "Thanks for the paper and pen. I'll leave you alone now."

"Fuck. Faith, wait." Octavio jumps from his seat, crossing to me before I can duck out of the room. He moves fast for someone as big as he is. His arm shoots out, blocking my exit. "How'd I piss you off?"

"You didn't." I clutch the notebook to my chest, refusing to turn around to face him.

"You're lying."

"I'm…" I break off with a huff, biting my lower lip to stop the way it trembles. "You didn't make me angry. I just realized that you still see me as a kid, that's all."

"That hurt your feelings."

I shrug.

"Look at me, Faith." When I don't heed his command, he places a hand on my shoulder, forcing me to turn around to face him. He's so close that the fabric of his shirt brushes across my cheek. Why does he have to smell as good as he looks? It's not fair.

My tongue peeks out, sliding across my bottom lip as I stare up at him. His eyes are dark, stark hunger stamped across the sharp planes of his face.

"I've never seen you as a kid," he whispers, his deep voice rough. "Not once since I met you."

"Okay."

He reaches out, running his fingertip across my bottom lip again. "I miss you sleeping in my bed, angel. Hearing you cry out at night and knowing you don't want me to comfort you is fucking killing me."

"I…"

"I hate asking you to think about those bastardos ," he says before I can even process that half-tortured confession. "I hate that you think I'm anything like Tarasova, and I hate that memories of them still torment you. That's why I don't ask you questions. When you're ready to tell me your secrets, you will."

"I don't think you're like Tarasova," I whisper, guilt washing through me in a powerful flood. "I'm sorry for what I said that morning, Octavio. I didn't mean it. I just meant…"

"You meant what you said, conejita ." He gives me a sad smile and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. "I don't blame you for not trusting my intentions, and you weren't wrong. I wish I could give you the freedom you so desperately crave, but I can't let you go." He leans forward, brushing his lips across my forehead. "Write your list if it makes you happy, but you don't have to do anything you don't want to do. I can't give you freedom, but I can give you that much."

"Octavio–" Tears spring to my eyes, though I'm not sure why. He sounds weary, like he's hurting, but I don't understand why. He doesn't give me a chance to ask either. He turns me around with gentle hands and nudges me toward the door.

"Go to bed, little bunny. And dream happy dreams for me."