Chapter 11
I n the bathroom, Mila rolled the sweatpants down twice at the waist. The T-shirt still smelled like Ghost—warm, masculine, and earthy.
A forty-eight-hour fast hadn’t been in her plans, yet here she was.
Despite the rumbling in her stomach, she didn’t trust that she wouldn’t get nauseated if she ate.
Funny, she hadn’t been hungry all day yesterday.
It wasn’t until she’d slept warmly and safely in Ghost’s bed, with him snuggled around her like a blanket, that her nervous system had relaxed enough to allow her body to indicate hunger.
Strange, considering he was the reason she was in her current situation.
She brushed her teeth and resisted the urge to obsess over her appearance—there were dark circles beneath her eyes, her skin was sallow, her hair scraggly. Looks wouldn’t keep her alive right now.
Actually, if he wants to fuck me, he might want to keep me alive.
Booting that thought from her head before it took root, she popped open the bathroom door and then made her way downstairs. The floorboards creaked as she walked to the kitchen. The comforting smell of coffee and the sound of sizzling meat wrapped her in a warm hug.
Ghost stood at the island, a bowl full of eggs in front of him and a fork in hand. “Coffee’s there.” He nodded briskly at the steaming white mug on the counter in front of a barstool.
Cream and sugar also sat out. She took a seat and wrapped her hands around the hot ceramic. She watched as he beat the eggs, the muscles in his forearm tense. Butter crackled in the skillet. He turned and poured the eggs into a separate pan.
She finally dared to break the silence. “You didn’t have to cook for me.”
He picked up a spatula and flipped the meat. “It’s fine. I had leftover steak from last night.”
She poured some cream into her brew. She wasn’t much of a coffee drinker. Actually, the caffeine combined with watching Ghost work around the kitchen would probably make her heart beat out of her chest.
She sipped the coffee, and its heat touched her bones. A few minutes later, Ghost took plates out of a cupboard, dropped bread in the toaster, and began dishing out their meals.
He slid a plate across the counter to her and handed her a fork.
“Thank you,” she said, as her fingers brushed his. A thrill raced over her flesh.
He moved around the island with his plate piled full and pulled up the stool next to her.
Her stomach rumbled again, but nerves and anticipation shook her fingers as she picked up the piece of toast. It seemed the safest thing to eat until her stomach settled. “Are you going to eat all that?” she asked, nodding at his plate.
Ghost scooped scrambled eggs and a piece of steak into his mouth, chewed, then washed it down with coffee. “Probably. Do you have enough?”
“I’m fine. That’s a lot.”
He chuckled. “I’m a little bigger than you.”
“A little” was an understatement. Even the fork looked ridiculously small in his hand.
She gazed at his knuckles. “What’s that tattoo for?”
He turned his hand over, and she pointed to the paw print.
As if acting on reflex, he balled his hand into a fist. “Nothing. Just an old pet.”
“A dog?”
He nodded, his head down. He scooped another forkful of meat.
Sadness crawled around her heart. She took a cautious bite of egg, trying to imagine this mammoth of a man with a dog. He was so abrasive and cold—surely he didn’t have enough heart to care for an animal. But clearly he had at some point.
“I’m sorry,” she finally said. He hadn’t said the pet had died, but it was obvious something had happened. “I always wanted a dog growing up.”
Of course, as an adult she couldn’t fulfill that wish. Not with her career. Not when she could be gone without warning for days at a time, or hell, killed, like she’d almost been.
Might still be.
Though that was appearing less likely by the hour.
He took a sip of his coffee. “You mean to tell me you didn’t have a normal childhood?” he said mockingly.
A knife twisted in her stomach. “Not really.”
He was silent a moment. He set down his cup. “Let me guess. Dad left home and your choice of work is your way of rebelling?”
She lowered her gaze, ignoring the mockery in his tone. “Why don’t you tell me about your childhood? I doubt yours was normal. Someone wants you dead, so you’ve done something to piss people off.”
“I’ve pissed off a lot of people. Killed more, I’m sure. But that’s different. I did five tours in Afghanistan, so I guess you could say I’ve got the stomach for violence.” He dipped his chin. “You don’t see women on this side of our business very often.”
She kept her gaze down. In the last couple of days, she’d been assaulted by more memories and emotions than she’d ever faced in the years since she gave up hope of finding her family.
Closing that door had been an act of survival.
Now that she’d faced death directly, it was almost as if her brain didn’t want to protect her anymore.
“It’s fine. You don’t need to respond to that. At the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter what brought you here.” He cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking about your question upstairs. About where things go from here.”
She lifted her head sharply, her breath stuck in her throat.
“I plan to let you go. But I need your help.” He leveled his stare at her. “I want you to help me find out who issued the hit. If that means calling—or paying a visit—to your handler, then that’s what we’ll do. I don’t want—”
“Okay,” she breathed.
Ghost cocked back his head and blinked. “That easy?”
She swallowed, nodding.
“Why? Is this some way to trap me?” A laugh rolled from his mouth.
“No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”
“Then why? You could’ve spoken up at any time.”
She squirmed in her seat as his intense eyes seared her to the spot. Heat rose to her cheeks as he stared, his eyes hot and tension throbbing in the air.
Prior to their encounter, she’d had no beef with Ghost. Hadn’t even heard of him.
She’d done only what she’d been paid to do.
Who wanted him dead had nothing to do with her.
She was never given details like that. But this man could have killed her, yet he saved her twice.
Could have beaten her, but had shown her gentleness.
He wasn’t a saint. But he wasn’t a monster either.
She inhaled, and for the first time since she was nine years old, she felt exhilaration. Excitement. Hell, she felt something .
She needed to do this.
Not just because she wanted to be free.
She also wanted to give Ghost a chance to find who’d wronged him.
Maybe all this had happened for a reason.
She wouldn’t have gotten out of this lifestyle on her own simply because she didn’t know anything else.
She spoke Russian and English, and she’d earned her high school diploma through homeschooling with Irinia and Alexei.
She might not have a lot of real-world experience, but the chance at a new reality dangled before her and never had she wanted to grab it so badly.
She chose her words carefully. “For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wondered how different my life would’ve been if—” She swallowed the words that’d almost slipped out. “If I’d made other choices.”
“There’s an expression.” She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “I can’t think of the exact words, but something along the lines of ‘Being uncomfortable initiates change.’ When your level of discomfort becomes unbearable, you’re forced onto a different path. Does that make sense?”
Ghost leaned back a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. “You saying because I made you so physically uncomfortable you’ve had a change of heart?”
That almost made her smile. “I don’t mean physical discomfort. More of a mental thing. But yeah, being captured by you and put in a position I’ve never been in... it’s made me long for something different. Something I’ve never had.”
He nodded slowly. “All right. Well, I guess if you promise not to make any further attempts on my life, we have a deal.” He held out his hand.
She stared at his wide palm and narrowed her eyes. “I can’t exactly strike a deal with a man who’s given me an alias.”
Disbelief flashed across his face. His hand hovered between them. “You want to know my real name?”
She shrugged. “Seems kind of important, don’t you think? If we’re really trying to establish trust.” She tilted her head, angling her eyes up at him.
He chuckled. The sound was gruff and soft. “I haven’t told anyone my real name in years.”
His words didn’t startle her. If there was anything she understood all too well, it was the importance of being invisible—like a ghost.
“Maybe it’ll make you feel good,” she offered.
A loud bark burst from his chest. “Honey, there’s only one thing that makes me feel good.”
Her cheeks sizzled. The air between them crackled. Time briefly skidded to a halt. Then she smirked. “I’ve got nothing to worry about then. You swore you’d never fuck me.”
Electricity sparked in his eyes.
“Name, please,” she blurted, before the conversation could go any further sideways. “Or the deal’s off.”
He snagged her hand from her lap and fit his palm around it. So much of his skin covered hers. His fingers almost wrapped around her wrist.
She didn’t pull away.
Couldn’t if she’d wanted to.
His gray eyes marked her soul. “Atticus Troy.” His voice was strong and bold, just like his name.
Warmth spread through her—not just from his touch, but also from his willingness to trust her, even with something as simple as a name. “Okay, Atticus. Should I call you that or Ghost?”
“Either.” He gripped her hand a little tighter. “Do we have a deal?”
“Deal,” she whispered, hanging on by a thread.
He smiled, wide and genuine, and gently shook their hands up and down. “Good.”
She slipped her fingers from his even though part of her wanted to stay encased in his protective grasp forever.