Chapter 4 #2
I lower my head, acting on a predator’s instinct to mark what is his. I bury my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the localized scent of her arousal mixed with that rose perfume.
I open my mouth and sink my teeth into the junction of her neck and shoulder, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. I want my brand on her skin before the fire takes us both.
She gasps my name. Her fingers dig into my shoulders.
Her fingernails scrape across the thick, raised burn scars hidden beneath my shirt.
The physical pain hits me like a bullet.
The memory of the fire detonates across my vision.
Flames licking the warehouse walls. The crushing heat. The sickening smell of burning flesh. Kowalski’s dead hand slipping from my grip. The soul-crushing agony of total loss.
Caring equals losing. Connection equals death.
The primal terror of the past collides with the sudden, terrifying bond of the Thunderbolt.
I reject it.
I tear myself away from her.
I shove her backward. My hands are rough. Two feet of hard distance between us in a split second.
She stumbles slightly. She catches her balance against the doorframe. She looks at me in shock. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are wide and confused.
“Don’t touch me,” I snarl.
My voice is a feral, vicious bark. I’m furious at her. Enraged with myself.
I failed the test. I let the target compromise my operational focus in less than five minutes. I let a mafia princess make me forget the smell of the fire.
“Rafe…” she starts. She reaches a hand out toward me.
“I said don’t touch me.” I widen the distance between us.
My chest heaves. The scars on my shoulder burn like fresh acid. The Thunderbolt still throbs in my blood, demanding I pull her back into my arms. I fight it. I fight the instinct with everything I have.
She drops her hand. The Costa mask slams back into place. Her face goes blank.
“Get out of my bedroom,” she commands softly. The vulnerability is gone. Back to giving orders.
I don’t argue. I need air. I need space. I need to get away from the overpowering scent of roses before I lose my mind.
I turn sharply on my heel. I stalk toward the heavy mahogany bedroom door.
I reach out and grip the brass handle.
A loud commotion erupts in the sitting room outside.
Heavy footsteps. Nick’s sharp, commanding voice barking an order. A woman’s panicked apology overlapping his words.
Then a different sound slices through the heavy wood.
“Mommy!”
A tiny, high-pitched voice. Utterly joyful.
I freeze. My hand locks around the brass handle.
“Mommy, Enrique said you were home!”
Small feet pound across the plush rug in the sitting room. Running directly toward the bedroom door.
A woman’s panicked voice follows. “Tyra, wait! You cannot run in here!”
Tyra.
The sound of a small child in this place hits me like a physical blow.
I stare at the solid wood paneling. My brain struggles to process the sudden influx of impossible information.
Dominic Costa did not mention a child in the briefing files. The detailed documents contain zero reference to a daughter. The compound blueprints don’t label a nursery.
There’s a child in this house.
I slowly turn my head. I look back at Lucia.
All the color has drained from her face. Her skin is chalk white. Terror, raw and undisguised, radiates from her dark eyes.
She isn’t looking at me. She’s staring at the closed door.
The brass handle in my grip turns from the outside.
Small hands push the heavy door open.
I step back. I clear the path.
A tiny girl bursts into the bedroom. Maybe four years old. Bright pink pajamas covered in cartoon unicorns. She clutches a ragged, grey stuffed wolf to her chest.
A chaotic mop of dark, curly hair. Bright, intelligent eyes.
A breathless, terrified woman in a simple uniform rushes through the open doorway a second later. The nanny.
She skids to a halt. One look at my size, my tactical armor, the lethal weapons strapped to my thighs. She lets out a sharp squeak and freezes.
Lucia ignores the nanny. She ignores me.
She drops to her knees on the plush rug. She opens her arms wide.
“Tyra,” she whispers. Her voice cracks.
The little girl runs past me. She throws herself into her mother’s arms.
Lucia buries her face in the child’s dark curls. She wraps her arms around the small body. She holds her fiercely. She protects her.
I stand in the corner of the room. The air is gone from my lungs.
A kid. A glaring liability. A fragile, breathing reason for the terror in Lucia’s eyes.
The Thunderbolt pulses in my veins. It doesn’t care about my trauma. It doesn’t care about the fire. It demands I cross the rug. It demands I wrap my arms around both of them and slaughter anyone who steps through this door.
I want to claw into my own chest and rip the connection out by the roots. I want to reverse the biological hijacking. I want to be numb again.
But my heavy boots feel glued to the floor. My hands twitch at my sides.
The terrifying truth settles heavy and dark in my gut. I want to destroy the bond. But I also desperately, violently want to surrender to it.
I want to claim the mafia princess and the little girl in her arms.
The rose and childish shampoo mixes with the phantom scent of burning ash.
I can’t do this. I refuse to burn again.
I force my boots to move. I turn around. I walk straight out of the bedroom.
I don’t look back.