Chapter 14
Army
I’m about to break into Leeva’s suite. Having been raised in a criminal MC and trained as an elite Marine, I’ve done B I’m here for the woman herself.
You still don’t know if the woman is actually Leeva. Kathryn Wentzell could just be her uncanny look-alike, my brain tries to reason.
But I know it’s her.
And not because I need it to be her, or because, for the past decade, I’ve been living a shell of my former existence, refusing to search for her because I knew she was better off anywhere other than here, being Guerilla’s old lady and in the city which had brought her so much pain.
And now that she’s back, I feel like I’m returning from the land of the living dead, and I refuse to lose her again.
Shaking my head to clear my thoughts and get my head in the game, I approach the door to Leeva’s hotel room, not glancing around or doing anything that might look suspicious. Instead, I act like this is exactly where I belong.
I knew Leeva would request a room with a direct line of sight to the Golden Gate Bridge, which narrowed the options to the ones on the curved corner of the hotel with the full view.
Even with having money now, I knew she wouldn’t choose the penthouse, but she also wouldn’t go for the lower floors, where someone could easily scale up onto the balcony.
That left three floors of corner rooms as the options.
I had eliminated two by seeing couples coming and going from those.
To actually get into the hotel room, I have a genius little device that Digits created. He doesn’t know I have it, of course. Earlier today, I went up into his tower to apologize for punching him and had borrowed it and a few other things then.
I always carry the jamming device—same as every Council member—so I can block security cameras and electronic signals wherever I need, like I’m doing now.
The device that I stole from Digits will clone the electronic lock on Leeva’s hotel room door.
That way, I’ll have continued, unrestricted access to her room, even if she gets the keycard reprogrammed.
My biggest concern is that she’ll hear the sound as the door unlocks or opens and closes. She hasn’t left the hotel, and I’ve waited until it’s late, so she should be asleep, and I’m hoping she still sleeps like the dead, like when she was younger.
There’s no question that what I’m doing is stupid as fuck, but I’m still doing it. Without hesitation.
The hotel room is quiet and dark when I unlock the door and slip inside. I stay still, listening for any sounds to indicate she’s awake and alarmed, but I’m only met with silence.
The room is pitch-black, and I reach into my bag to pull out the night-vision goggles.
I’m briefly thrown back to memories from my Marine days, but I push those away because I’m on an entirely different mission tonight.
I’m not following orders from my superiors—Ash, my superior now, would kick my ass and tie me up in the Cell for my own safety—nor am I doing something for the greater good as I had with the Marines.
No, tonight I’m doing something solely for me.
Once I turn on the night-vision goggles and the room comes into view in grainy green, I realize it’s not a single hotel room but a suite with a living area and a separate bedroom. The bedroom door is open, and there’s still no noise to indicate Leeva is awake or aware I’m here.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out a bandana and cover the bottom portion of my face in case she wakes while I’m here. I’m not ready for her to know that I’m her masked wolf from Hedon or for her to come face-to-face with Hayes, either.
The living room of the suite has high-end furniture, blown-glass lamps, and expensive art on the walls. While it’s blowing my mind that Leeva is living in this lap of luxury, it makes sense since she married a business tycoon.
Rage fills me at the thought of someone having her and claiming her as his wife. It’s bad enough to think of her as Guerilla’s old lady, even if it was for a short time before everything went to hell.
But how did she meet Luthor Wentzell? Why did she marry him? Did she love him? Or with the twenty-five-plus-year age gap, was she just looking for a cushy life and seduced an older man?
Both my mind and body instantly reject that traitorous thought. Leeva is no gold digger. Not my little dove.
But she’s not pure and innocent any longer, remember? She was at Hedon last night.
My body experiences the contradictory reactions it’s had all day whenever I think about that. Potent, toxic lust, coupled with wild disbelief and slight disgust at myself for defiling her innocence.
On its heels is the persistent thought that she came to the club voluntarily. And if she hadn’t admitted that this was her first time in a club like Hedon, I don’t know if I would’ve been able to control my fury.
This woman isn’t Leeva; she can’t be. There’s no tattoo…not even a scar, my mind argues, still resisting.
After visiting Digits earlier, I also went to see Tats at Havoc Rebel Ink, his tattoo shop.
Without giving anything away, I asked for his expert knowledge about tattoo removal.
According to him, it’s very rare for anyone to not have at least some kind of mild scarring, discoloration, or change in skin texture.
The woman from last night had smooth, unblemished skin. Even when I touched it, there was no feel of scarring underneath.
Another reason I went to see Tats was that Len had mentioned skin prosthetics, and I had Tats mix a solution to dissolve the glue or adhesive used for them. He gave me a strange look, but I didn’t explain, and he knew better than to ask, since I outrank him. I have that solution with me tonight.
Pushing away all the thoughts rioting in my head, I focus on my mission: to determine if Kathryn Wentzell, widow of Luthor Wentzell, is indeed Leeva Malone, my pure and innocent dove and best friend.
I move silently through the suite’s living room. My former training officers would be proud to know that my stealth skills are still sharp and on point. I pause to listen at the bedroom door, but the only sound is her deep, rhythmic breathing.
Stepping into the room, I see her sleeping on the bed. The heavy curtains are closed over the window, and the sheets are tangled around her. Her dark hair fans around her, and she’s completely naked.
My whole body reacts. An electrical current zaps through me, like I’ve been hit with a cattle prod, and I couldn’t stop moving toward her even if I tried.
At the side of her bed, I halt, stopping myself from touching her. Instead, my eyes rake over her, drinking her naked body in through the night vision, remembering everything from last night. She’s absolutely stunning.
I want to fall to my knees and worship this woman.
It’s not Leeva, my mind resists.
My eyes move over her long legs. Her thighs are closed, hiding her pussy that had been like entering the pearly gates of heaven. The flare of her hips and narrow waist. Her full, lush breasts. Then up the long, graceful column of her neck.
The body might not be how I remember Leeva, but her face is. Now that she’s unmasked, I wonder how I didn’t recognize her full, pouty lips that I’ve dreamed of kissing for years, her tapered jawline, or the slight point of her chin.
But why would I ever think the sexy siren in Hedon was my long-lost best friend? Not only because of her body changes, but because Hedon is the last place I ever would’ve expected her.
It seems time has changed more than just her body…
This woman isn’t Leeva. It can’t be; there’s no tattoo. I’m still caught in this resistance spiral.
My gaze moves to the spot on her neck where Guerilla’s tattoo should be.
I’m here tonight to determine, one way or the other, who this woman is. If Tats’ concoction works and peels back the edges of a skin prosthetic, then it’s Leeva. If not, it’s Kathryn Wentzell, who is only Leeva’s doppelg?nger.
Setting my bag on the floor, I pull out the vial from Tats. He warned it would be highly irritating to the skin and cautioned me to use as little as possible.
Dabbing some onto a cotton pad, I kneel at the side of the bed. She shifts and groans, making me freeze. I study her to see if she’s waking, but she still breathes deeply. However, her face is pinched, as if in pain.
Noticing a prescription bottle on the bedside table, I lean closer to read the label and recognize it as the same medication Leeva used when she began getting intense migraines. I always said the timing of their onset coincided with her involvement with Guerilla.
I study her now, contemplating.
As Army/Hayes Cartwright, I worry that Leeva still has those migraines.
As a former Marine and with my pragmatic, analyzing brain, this is another check in the box that this woman is, in fact, Leeva.
As the wolf from last night—the one with filthy, deviant thoughts and desires—I grin, knowing nothing will wake Leeva right now because the medication always had a sedation effect on her.
Turning my attention back to my task, I press the cotton pad to her neck and gently swipe it over the skin. Leaning closer, I study her neck, looking for the slight lift of the skin prosthetic that’s hiding the tattoo underneath.
Nothing happens.
Frowning, I dampen the cotton pad with more of Tats’ concoction and reapply it. I wait again, but still nothing. I do it for a third time, ignoring his warning that this is highly irritating, because I need to know.
Still nothing.
Frustration brews in me, and I run my fingertips over her angry, reddened skin. But the skin isn’t textured, and there’s no presence of scarring underneath to indicate the tattoo was removed, either.
Denial and disappointment roll through me. This has to be Leeva. I want it to be Leeva. But in the same breath, I don’t because that meant I dirtied her with my filth.
But without Guerilla’s tattoo, or any evidence that it was ever there, how can it be her?
My fingers curl, and my fingernails lightly scratch her neck, searching for the edge of the fake skin covering Guerilla’s mark.
But there’s nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I sit back on my heels, defeat and sorrow crushing in.
This isn’t Leeva. This isn’t my little dove, my best friend.
I’ve missed her so fucking much. I spent years convincing myself that she was better off wherever she was, so I could live with the pain of her absence. The pain of losing her.
But it’s like all that pain is rushing back in, hitting me like a freight train.
I relive the scene in the hospital all over again.
Where I held her as she shattered after losing her baby, and where, after seeing her absorbing the blame for Guerilla’s infidelity—like she was somehow defective or the cause—I admitted that he was a fucking piece of shit.
She realized I was hiding critical information, and I admitted I knew he had cheated on her at least once before.
Her look of betrayal and how I shattered her even further still guts me to this day.
I tried to explain that I had beaten the shit out of him for it, and that I hadn’t told her because she seemed so goddamn happy with him, and her happiness was my only goal.
I omitted that part of the reason I hadn’t told her was that I was worried about her physical health and how thin she still was during her pregnancy.
If I had known what would happen in the future and that she’d discover him with three Club Pussy, I would’ve buried a bullet in his brain to stop all that and her pain.
But none of that mattered when I was forced to confess my sins and what I had kept from her.
“How dare you. How dare you… You’re dead to me, Hayes.”
Those words, added to my guilt, had gutted me. I left her because I knew she needed some space, but when I returned a few hours later, she was gone.
And now, I feel all that pain as if I’m reliving it all over in real time. This serendipitous meeting with Leeva’s doppelg?nger is a cruel, cruel punishment for all my sins.
Pain crushes me, and if I weren’t already on the floor on my knees, I wouldn’t be able to stand.
Thinking that I had her back, only to discover this isn’t her—because it can’t be—makes the pain that much worse. If losing her the first time nearly killed me, I’m not sure I’ll survive it now.
But then she murmurs in her sleep, and I go stock-still. Disbelief mingles with pure, unadulterated joy.
“Hayes…”