Chapter 15
The interior of the SUV was a controlled environment. Or at least, it was supposed to be.
The temperature was set to a precise twenty degrees. The tinted windows filtered out the harsh glare of the city lights. The engine hummed with a low, expensive vibration that usually allowed me to think, to strategize, to categorize the world into threats and non-threats.
But currently, the environment was compromised.
I sat rigid, my posture perpendicular to the leather seat, eyes fixed on the back of Sean's head as he navigated the winding roads. Marcus occupied the passenger seat, his head turned toward the passing scenery, feigning an interest in the trees to avoid looking at the backseat.
They were smart to look away.
On my right, the Asset—Aleizha—was dismantling my composure with the tip of her index finger.
She had taken my left hand. I hadn't offered it.
She had simply claimed it, pulling it onto her lap as if it were a toy she had found in a cereal box.
For the last ten minutes, she had been tracing the lines of my palm.
Her touch was feather-light, maddeningly inconsistent.
Up the life line, across the heart line, poking the calloused pads where my gun usually rested.
Snap it, my instincts whispered. Grab the wrist. Twist. Apply four pounds of pressure. Immobilize.
It was the muscle memory of a lifetime spent neutralizing annoyances. I wanted to crush her hand, to break every delicate finger interlaced with mine just to stop the erratic sensory input.
But I remained still. I was a statue carved from ice and irritation.
Then, she leaned in. I felt the warmth of her breath ghost against the fabric of my suit jacket, right over my shoulder. Then, a sharp intake of breath.
She was sniffing me.
My head snapped down, eyes narrowing. "Why did you do that?"
Aleizha didn't flinch at my tone. She never did. Instead, she looked up, her brown eyes crinkling into crescents, a smile playing on her lips that suggested she knew a secret I didn't.
"I'm just..." She trailed off, leaning her cheek against my shoulder, her finger resuming its torture of my palm. "I'm just a bit addicted to your scent."
She giggled. The sound vibrated against my arm.
A bit?
The words hung in the sterile air of the car. Addicted. The term implied dependency. It implied a chemical reaction. And what, exactly, did she like? I smelled of unscented soap, gun oil, and starch. There was nothing there to be addicted to.
And then, the inevitable comparison.
"What scent?" I asked. The words came out flatter than I intended. "What is it that you like?"
Aleizha pulled back slightly, looking out the window on my side, her reflection ghosting over the glass. She smiled again, a soft, reminiscent look that made my stomach tighten in a way that had nothing to do with motion sickness.
"Well, I met someone earlier," she said, her voice airy, casual. "Before I went home. His name was Eli."
Eli.
I filed the name instantly. Three letters. Male.
"He smelled like citrus," she continued, tracing a circle on the back of my hand now. "Like oranges and sunshine. He was tall. Handsome, too."
Citrus.
My jaw clenched. Who smells like citrus? Dish detergent smells like citrus. Floor cleaner smells like citrus. It is a sharp, acidic smell. It is not a scent for a man.
She turned back to me, her eyes dancing. Without warning, she reached up and poked the center of my chest, right over the sternum.
"But you're more handsome," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "And taller."
She said it as if she were offering me a consolation prize. As if her compliment would act as a salve to the sudden, white-hot rage that was currently incinerating my patience.
I gulped, the sound loud in my own ears. I looked at her, really looked at her, analyzing the micro-expressions on her face. She was teasing. But beneath the teasing, there was the fact: she had noticed another man. She had noticed his height. She had noticed his scent.
Eli.
The name echoed in the vault of my mind, bouncing off the walls of my restraint.
I could find him. It would take one phone call. Three keystrokes. I could locate every Eli in the city within a ten-mile radius. I could find out where he lived, where he bought his citrus cologne, and I could burn his house down.
Why the fuck would I do that? He is irrelevant. He is civilian debris.
He wasn't important. He was just... some guy.
"Ah," was all I said.
The car began to slow, the gravel crunching beneath the heavy tires. I looked out the window, grateful for the distraction. We had arrived at the edge of the cliff.
The building was a three-story architectural indulgence, clinging to the precipice like a barnacle.
The walls were painted a deep, earthy brown with accents of gold that caught the evening light.
Warm, amber light spilled from the floor-to-ceiling windows, revealing an interior that screamed of unnecessary expense.
Sean put the car in park.
Before I could move, the passenger door opened. Marcus hopped out.
I watched, eyes narrowing, as Marcus—my subordinate, a man who usually moved with the grace of a battering ram—walked around the front of the SUV. He approached Aleizha's door. He opened it.
I froze.
What is he doing?
I had never opened the door for her. Not once in the past ten days. Why would I? She was just an asset. A contract. A biological necessity for the client. You do not open doors for cargo; you secure it. You transport it. Chivalry implies a relationship, and we had none.
Aleizha beamed at him, taking his hand as he helped her down from the high seat of the SUV.
"Thank you, Marcus!" she chirped.
Marcus dipped his head slightly. "Ma'am."
I felt a vein in my temple throb. Why the fuck was he being chivalrous? I didn't pay him to be a gentleman; I paid him to be a guard. Seeing him treat her like a lady instead of a liability was irrationally aggravating.
I shoved my own door open and slammed it shut with enough force to rock the chassis. I walked around the vehicle, my strides long and aggressive, until I stood beside Aleizha, looming over her. I glared at the building, then at Marcus.
Marcus didn't look at me. He was studying the horizon.
"Wait here," Aleizha told them, waving her hand. "Uhm... three hours? Maybe four? Hehehe. Bye-bye!"
She grabbed my wrist.
"Let's go, Gabriel!"
She began to drag me. Not guide me. Drag me.
I looked at the sign above the gold-framed double doors. Serenity Cliffside Spa cut off one argument, and she sprouted two more nonsensical ones.
"Fine."
I turned my back to her. I faced the wall.
I began to undress. The sounds of the room were magnified in the silence. The rustle of fabric. The zip of a dress. The soft thud of clothes hitting the tiled floor.
My heart rate was elevated. Not from exertion. From proximity. She was three feet away, naked.
She is the Asset. Objective: Fertilization. She must be kept stress-free to ensure optimal biological conditions. Compliance is a strategy.
I pulled the robe on and tied the belt tight enough to cut off circulation.
"Done?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Me too!"
We turned. She was drowning in the white waffle-weave fabric. Her hair was piled messy on her head. I looked down at the floor, spotting her discarded pile of clothes—a small heap of colors against the sterile white. I quickly looked away.
The staff member knocked and opened the door, guiding us out to the balcony.
The view was admittedly impressive. The ocean stretched out below, dark and rhythmic. But my attention was drawn to the horrifying pit in the center of the deck.
It was a pool. Filled with brown sludge.
"Mud?" I asked, looking at Aleizha.
She grinned. "Volcanic mud! It's the best for the soul."
"My soul is fine," I said. "My soul does not require dirt."
"It detoxifies everything. Promise, pinky swear, cross my heart, padlock!" She held up her pinky.
I stared at the finger. Then I sighed, defeated. "Fine."
We approached the pool.
"Robes off," she commanded. "Turn around again!"
We repeated the ridiculous dance. I dropped the robe. The cool night air hit my skin. I stepped into the mud. It was warm, viscous, and slimy. It felt like sinking into a bog. I hated it instantly.
"Okay, sit down," Aleizha said.
I sat. The mud rose to my chest. It was heavy, clinging to my skin like a second, suffocating layer.
Aleizha sat opposite me. The mud covered us, hiding everything but our heads and shoulders.
"Isn't this nice?" she asked, leaning her head back.
"It feels like I am being digested by the earth," I replied.
She laughed, splashing a bit of mud at me. I wiped it from my cheek, staring at her blankly.
She began to babble. She talked about the weather. She talked about a stray cat she saw three days ago. She talked about the color of the curtains in her room.
"And you know, strawberries are actually not berries," she was saying. "But bananas are! Isn't that crazy? It's like, who decided the names? Probably a man. Men are bad at naming things."
I listened. I didn't want to, but I did. I cataloged the information. Bananas = Berries. Strawberries = Not Berries. Useless data. Irrelevant to the portfolio. But I listened because she was smiling, and a smiling Asset is a compliant Asset.
The door to the balcony opened.
I didn't turn immediately. I was watching Aleizha, who had stopped talking mid-sentence about pineapples. Her eyes went wide. A brilliant, genuine smile broke across her face.
She waved her muddy hand frantically.
"Aleizha!" she screamed.
My brow furrowed. Aleizha?
I turned my head slowly, the mud creating resistance against my neck.
Standing in the doorway was a woman.
I blinked. My professional brain stalled, the gears grinding against a sudden, violent influx of conflicting data.
The woman was tall—approximately 165 centimeters. She was fit, sexy, with healthy, glossy hair. She radiated a calm, composed aura.
I gulped as I looked at the woman.
She looked exactly like the photo in the data my men had given me. The dossier labeled ALEIZHA GARCIA.
My eyes darted back to the girl in the mud next to me.
She had the same face. The same eyes. The same nose. The resemblance was uncanny, almost perfect.
But the girl in the mud was small. Likely 155cm or less.
The woman in the mud with me—the bubbly, chaotic, small creature who liked tracing my palm lines—was beaming at the newcomer.
"Hi!" the woman in the doorway said. Her voice was sweet, enticing, lower than the girl next to me.
I looked back at the girl in the mud. Then back at the woman in the doorway.
Aleizha?
They had the same name.
But the woman at the door... she was the target. She was the face in the file. She was the one I was supposed to be protecting.
So who the hell was in the mud with me?
The girl next to me splashed the mud happily. "Come in, come in! The mud is great!"
The woman at the door smiled, stepping into the light. "I see you brought a friend."
She looked at me.
I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead, unrelated to the heat of the volcanic mud.