10. Noah #2
“What are you doing? You probably shouldn’t get up.” The panic in Del’s voice—because I doubt he’s cared for many injured women in his life—makes me huff a laugh… which hurt like a bitch.
“I have to pee. Help me or get out of the way.”
He rolls his eyes but offers his hand. I take it, ignoring the thrill that shoots up my arm and spills in my stomach, awakening the butterflies.
It’s been a long time since a single touch has made my stomach flutter.
Del cautiously leads me to the bathroom across the hallway. He’s careful and patient as I hiss and groan with every step. He’s also limping, and I’m quite proud of myself for giving him that hole in his thigh.
By the time we make it to the toilet, I stand there, staring at the porcelain throne as I try to figure out how I’m going to do this.
“Do you need help here?”
I frown and nod.
If he’s in pain from the wounds I gave him, he doesn’t show it as he kneels and slips the tips of his fingers behind the bands of my panties.
He slowly slides them down and not once does he look at my pussy just inches from his face. Instead, he locks his blue eyes with mine.
“Use me as an anchor to sit down.”
I grip his shoulders and when my ass hits the toilet seat, I let out a long breath of relief.
“Thank you. You can leave now.”
He pauses as if considering staying but gives me an unsure smile before leaving.
I’m surprised I hadn’t pissed the bed with how much pee I release.
Once finished—and feeling a million times better—I manage to pull my panties back up.
I carefully and slowly wash my hands, then use the sink’s counter as a crutch to raid the medicine cabinet.
I find a bottle of pain meds—the good stuff that Cillian probably smuggled—and pop one in my mouth, washing it down by using my hand as a cup.
I tuck the bottle in my bra and wipe the surfaces down to remove my fingerprints from everything I touched. By the time that’s done, I’m sweating and exhausted as I inch my way out of the restroom. I pray to whatever god will listen that the painkillers work fast.
I pass the guest bedroom to check out Cillian’s room and find the place wrecked. Cillian’s body is on the floor, lying in a pool of his blood, in front of the shattered glass mirror that broke when I kicked Del into it.
I spot my reflection in the rest of the wall-o-mirrors.
Del kicked my ass. What’s crazy is I’m not even mad at him. I did tell him to stab me.
My dark red hair is frizzy beyond control, my eyeliner resembles a raccoon. I’m still in nothing but my bra and panties. The blood splatter was at least cleaned off my skin.
My face heats with the thought of Del sweeping a wet cloth over my stomach, chest, and neck.
“Damn, Vixen, how do you make murder look so good?”
The reflection shows him checking me out from behind. I turn and cross my arms and Del’s eyes fall to my cleavage.
“What’s your plan with Cillian?”
“Deadly home invasion. You should see the living room. I destroyed everything. His office too. I broke into his safe and stole everything inside: money, jewelry, gold.” He opens his hands. “His enemy list is long. No one will ever suspect anything out of the ordinary.”
“What about our blood?”
“I have a law enforcement source who destroys evidence. I already gave him the heads up.”
Of course he did.
Del stalks toward me, and I step back until my ass bumps into a dresser.
“Why didn’t you kill me?” I ask, my voice a near whisper. It’s stolen by this man who’s now in front of me, his hard front flush with my softness. He pushes a piece of my hair back behind my ear and glances down at my lips, then back to my eyes.
“Who says I'm not going to kill you?”
I snort and the corner of his mouth turns up, stretching the faint scar on his lip. I want to touch it. I want to ask him how he got it. Same with the matching scar on his cheek. Something tells me those injuries aren’t from his work as a contract killer.
What about the scars on his chest and stomach? Were they from fights like ours? I gave him two new scars. Almost as if I’ve staked my claim over him.
He staked claim over me too.
“Who stitched me up?”
He has yet to step back. I might be panting, my voice breathy, because I can’t function when he’s this close to me. Despite me being five-ten, he towers over me by a few inches. He makes me feel small, which never happens.
Del traces his fingertips over the bandage on my arm, then to the one on my side. I shiver and goosebumps prickle my skin.
“I did.”
“Did you stitch yourself up too?”
“Yes.”
God, why is he so perfect?
Never mind that he tried to kill me. He’s still sexy and perfect and devours me with every sweep of his eyes.
“Tell me why you followed me in the club.”
His eyes move back to mine. “I was following Cillian. I was planning to kill him tonight. Then when he bumped into you… I thought he was going to take you home and rape you. Or harm you. Cillian was a horrible man.”
“I know. That’s why I accepted the hit on him a couple weeks ago. Guess whoever wanted him dead had assurances put in place.”
Del clenches his jaw and turns his back to me.
“Does that make you angry, Puppet? That I’m the one who took him out?”
He swings around, his fists balled at his sides. He’s breathing hard, clenching and unclenching his fists over and over. Then his tense shoulders sag.
“How did you become… how, dammit?!”
I shouldn’t want to explain myself. I shouldn’t want his validation. But I do.
I push off the dresser and walk to him.
“I’ll tell you everything.” Well, not everything. “But maybe we shouldn’t be hanging out at a crime scene. We’ve been here too long. And I need a shower.”
Del nods and points his hand at the door.
“Lead the way, Vixen.”