Chapter Twenty-Nine Larissa
Chapter Twenty-Nine
LARISSA
VISION MUTED AND hazy, I blink to clear it while summoning the energy to sit, just after Tyler appears in the tent. Cloaked in black from head to boots, he approaches, offering a steaming plate of food, which I greedily take.
“What?” I snap at his scrutiny, forking the steaming food in, hoping it will help slow the chill running through me. “We still haven’t talked, and day two starts now.”
When I get no reply, I look up just as he places a palm on my forehead. “Day two is almost over,” he says as his eyes flare. “Jesus, you’re burning up.”
“I’m fucking f-freezing to d-death.” Teeth chattering, I summon the will to shovel more of the paste eggs into my mouth.
“How long have your teeth been chattering?”
“I don’t know. W-where have you fucking been all day?” His eyes drop. “I’m sorry.”
“Two apologies in t-two days, maybe you’re not s-so fucking dead inside.”
He stills above me as I shovel more eggs in.
Feeling no better nor warmer, I toss the plate on the ground, uncaring about whatever is bothering him.
The man is a walking land mine, and I’m too fucking cold to bother precisely footing around whatever his mental space consists of this side of the hour.
But as I try my best to collect myself and face whatever today might bring, my vision starts to fade in and out, as does the sight of him. His stare following me as I begin to slip in and out of consciousness.
Open—I rouse again as fingertips wipe away the sweat dotting my brow before gently running over the top of my scalp.
Close—a crackle and snap sound in my ears before heavenly warmth starts to fill the blankets surrounding me.
Open—lids heavy, the feel of another blanket covering me has me meeting his blurred profile as sweat glides down my arms and back … just before I’m yanked back under.
Close—I’m surrounded by a familiar scent, his bare chest pressing against the skin of my naked back. A calloused fingertip gliding over the top of my hip, lingering where my birthmark is.
Open—the haze refuses me a clear view as a distinct pinch and stick draws me awake, while I fight a hacking cough, unable to draw in enough air.
Close—I stand on the edge of a snow-dusted cliff, shivering as I stare into a freezing void.
An ocean of darkness just beyond. Straining to see the path before me, a strong gust of wind propels me forward, and I slip and free-fall, hearing my mewl just before I’m …
caught, and surrounded by arms which pull me impossibly closer.
Open—indecipherable murmurs just outside the tent. Mixed voices. Concern?
Closed—the familiar feeling of being lifted. The start of an older car or truck?
Open—trickling water, my body going lax as my limbs are freed of their weight, as now familiar hands gently bathe me with a steaming rag.
Close—warmth, finally followed by blissful darkness.
When I’m finally able to open my eyes, I instantly recognize the tent is noticeably absent behind his blurred profile.
Blinking my focus back, I see gossamer curtains hanging as his backdrop.
Daylight gleaming over acres of blanketing snow through the window behind him.
Familiar woods edging the field. Coming further into myself, I realize I’m dressed in flannel pajamas before tuning into the crackle of logs just as the comforting smell of the fire reaches me.
A bed.
I’m in a bed, the feel of the comfort surreal as the comforter’s feathers give way easily in my palm. It’s when I finally blink away the fuzz surrounding my vision and the man lying opposite me comes into focus that all other awareness falls away.
“Hi,” he whispers, his penny eyes gently probing.
“Hi,” I whisper back, jaw shaking as a powerful shudder runs through me. As I stare at him, unexpected emotion surfaces, and it takes everything I have not to allow my eyes to water, even as my voice shakes with my question. “Am I going to die, Marine?”
“Not today,” he assures, voice low as he pushes the hair threatening to spill over my face behind my shoulder. As if it’s a nuisance interrupting his view. At his tender gesture and at being safe, I close my eyes against the emotion, thankful when the undertow sweeps me away once more.
Coming to once again as the sun sinks behind the tree line behind him, I force my way through the rest of my hazy vision to see he’s freshly bathed, his clothes clean, though his beard is rough around the edges. A rarity for him.
Knowing he probably put himself together in haste to get back to me—and also aware he’s sleeping peacefully from the even rise and fall of his chest—I don’t at all let his relaxed state stop my bite. “You used that fucking shower every morning.”
His chest bounces, and I’m stunned briefly by the sight of his upturning lips before his eyes pop open as mine narrow on him.
“You made me walk to and bathe in a freezing river.” His lips only continue to lift as I piece it together. “Hindsight is a glaring bitch, Marine, when you’re no longer begging for scraps. And make no mistake, you will burn in hell for that.”
“Probably,” he agrees, seeming resigned to that fate, “and much more. You really should have shot me when you had the chance.”
“Give me the gun now,” I grind out. “Jesus, you’re the definition of a son of a bitch.”
His lips lift further with every word. “I am, but not. My mother is actually the closest person I know to a saint.”
I keep myself from stalling at his first personal confession and instead decide to probe him a little. “How so?”
“You don’t know?” he asks, inching his pillow closer, already facing me.
“Not really.” I hear the rattle in my voice, the tickle in my throat threatening. “She’s a psychologist, right?”
He stiffens at this, but it’s pointless to tell him I’m aware due to observation, not firsthand knowledge. Given that my invasion and undetected surveillance remain his biggest grudge, he surprises me by answering.
“She had a practice for years, working a lot with teens, but started counseling vets and their wives.”
“That’s admirable. Pity that with that help nearby, you’re such a lunatic.” I lick my dry lips as his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Looks like someone is getting better.”
“I feel like hell. How long have I been out?”
“You’ve been in and out for the last six days. You had hypothermia for the first few, before you started to hack. I’ve started you on some antibiotics and pinched in a little morphine to help control the cough.”
“I was supposed to be home already.”
“Did you want to go unconscious?”
“Yes,” I blurt. “If only to rid myself of you.”
He rolls his eyes as his lips start to lift.
“There is something happening to your face,” I state. “There it is again.” I point to his forming grin, pathetically barely able to lift my finger. “Might want to have that checked out.”
“All your info checked out,” he whispers from his pillow to mine. “I think I might owe you another apology.”
“When I can lift more than a finger, I’m going to give you a matching shiner and then start on your fucking balls.”
“I said might. I didn’t say you were in the clear,” he warns.
This time, I roll my eyes. “And your dad is retired military,” I continue.
He nods, nostrils flaring a little. A tell he’s not bothering to hide.
“Drives my mom insane.” His smile appears again, this one faint. “At this point in his life, he’s getting so bored, he’s practically a wood whittler.”
“That is boring.”
“He keeps busy when he can at our apple farm and loves it.”
As I interpret his expression, he prompts me with the slight lift of his chin. “What?”
“You seem envious.”
He shrugs.
“No,” I deny his fast dismissal. “I see it so clearly. My God, man, you want to be impossibly more boring. You want to be a wood whittler on an apple farm.”
His eyes glaze slightly with what I know is his past, her, and just when I think he won’t acknowledge it, he speaks directly to it. “I don’t see it.”
“I do, it’s everywhere on you, so why don’t you do it?”
He grants me an inscrutable look. “Tell me what else you know about me.”
“Only what an outsider would,” I push out. “Think window view, no sound.”
“Well, that’s enough, isn’t it?” he bites.
“It’s called recon, something you do every day with a person of interest. Get over it already,” I croak.
“Why was I of so much interest to you?” he asks.
I hesitate. “Because of what you all have done, and can do.”
“That’s not all,” he deduces confidently.
“You wanted the truth the other night,” I divert. “If you want an answer to your question, you have to tell me what happened.”
All animation drops from our conversation as his eyes harden, his suspicion remaining that I know what went down.
“It’s like you said, they’re looking for us,” he admits. “These people that you talked about the night you came to my penthouse—”
“The dark carnival,” I cut in as the wheeze within it fills my ears.
His jaw ticks at that introduction before he lifts his chin for me to continue.
“That’s what I’ve always called them, anyway.
They’re exactly the types you’d expect to be in the don’s constant company.
The usual suspects—everyone he ruled over, those who reported to him, as well as drug lords and certain gang leaders.
But with Ciro, the company was vastly mixed and also included politicians and military—”
“Like Spencer—”
“Exactly, but it didn’t stop there. Athletes and entertainers, too. Many you wouldn’t think would dare enter the house of a don. But they did and still do. A lot of them disgusting fucks.”
“How so?”
“My father provided them with anything they wanted for the right price, or, from what I gathered from spying on what calls I could, traded favors from one to the other. But I think he wanted more than to impress his associates; he sought leverage to hold over them. So, if they partook in something damning, he could wield it later, especially when doing favors for the higher-ups. We think—”
“We who?”
I bite my lip, deciding to go further. “Roc and I.”