47. Nina
47
NINA
A plaque outside our room for the night reads Presidential Suite , and the interior lives up to the name. The expensive, sleek design is all black.
It’s good to know princess privilege extends underground.
Someone drops by with a cart, and Wesley accepts it as if he’d been waiting. It has a stack of clothes, socks, a first aid kit, some canned food, and a phone.
I hold up the last item. “A phone?”
“A burner,” Wesley says. “I’ll be able to call Jack and arrange for a pick-up first thing in the morning.”
Life outside of the last few hours falls in on me. My family must be worried sick. I hand him the phone. “Can you do that now? And make sure he tells my family that I said I’m okay?”
As he makes the call, I head into the bathroom to unpack the first aid bag. To my right is a walk-in shower with glass walls. I shiver at what atrocities might have been done to afford designs like that.
I grimace at my reflection. I need a shower. Dirt smudges along my arms, legs, and face. I tame my frizzy hair by redoing a bun, this one at the crown of my head. I clean the tiny scrape on my knee, marveling at the fact that it’s the only wound I got out of this tumultuous day.
“Is everything okay? What did Jack say?” I ask when Wesley appears behind me. I watch him through the mirror. “Did you tell him to talk to my family?”
“Of course. We set a time and place to meet tomorrow morning. Six a.m.”
“Why can’t we go now?”
“It’s getting dark, and Arlo expected us to come here, so he probably has his people outside.”
“If he knew we were coming here, then why didn’t we go somewhere else?” I wail, and I clamp my mouth shut when he looks at his torn shirt. I can’t focus. “Shit, right. That’s the whole reason I unpacked this thing. Take your shirt off.”
“Don’t worry about me; I’ll take care of it.” He brushes me off and reaches for the gauze.
I smack his hand away. “It’s not up to you. Shirt, off.”
He sighs, too exhausted to argue with me as he tugs it over his head. Bruises blossom up and down his body. “Yes, ma’am.”
He takes a few painkillers as I wash my hands. I fill the spray bottle with water to clean the blood around the two gashes on his torso—one on his chest and the other on his ribs. He winces when I peel off a piece of fabric that stuck to the open wound.
I crinkle my nose. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head. “No, it’s okay. I’m fine.”
He has two slits in his body and a face of bruises and cuts. He’s not fine. I use a gentler touch, savoring the feel of his coarse chest hair under my fingertips. The thought of Daria, or any other woman, seeing Wesley naked or sleeping with him makes my stomach twist. I clear my throat.
“Daria was your girlfriend?”
He blinks as if surprised. “I, uh—if you could call it that.”
My face warms. “Friends with benefits, then.”
“That’s not what I?—”
“It’s okay,” I interject, masking the slight tremor in my voice as I move to the cut on his ribcage. “I get it—she’s stunning. Deadly, too, by the looks of it… That’s your type?”
Maybe I was just a bump along the way. There’s a whole new side to him, a violent one, and what if I don’t fit? What if he remembers the thrill and doesn’t want me anymore? He stiffens as I flush the open skin with water. Droplets slip down his waist and I pretend that desire isn’t curling inside me.
“You’re my type,” he argues, his hand brushing my hip. “Only you.”
“Even though I’m not some bad ass who knows how to kill a man in twenty different ways?” I lean down to softly blow on the wound.
Wesley releases a sharp, shuddering breath. “Fuck,” he mumbles, and I smirk at the goosebumps pouring over his skin. He tightens his grip. “I don’t know, angel. You’ve already killed me a hundred times.”
Butterflies break free in my chest. He grazes my chin with his finger, prodding me to look at him. Warmth prickles through me at the mere sight of his face. Even with a cut on his brow, a bruised cheek, and a bruised eye, he’s handsome beyond reason. His deep-set eyes, thick brows, feather-soft hair, his scruff. I’m so in love with him.
“As long as you don’t hate me,” he says softly, “I’m not going anywhere.”
His direct demeanor knocks me into reality. I shiver as if doused with cold water. Arlo’s words replay in my mind.
This man murdered without humanity.
I inhale shakily. “Answer my questions, then. No arguing. No hesitation. Can you do that?” I ask, echoing what he said to me earlier. It’s a subtle challenge. I trusted you. Now it’s your turn.
“Yes,” he whispers.
I open my mouth, but no words come out. Once I ask this question, it’ll never be the same. “I—were you… were you an assassin?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as his breath hitches. “Yes.”
It’s chilling to admit that it doesn’t truly frighten me. If Wesley is supposedly a bad person, what does that make Arlo? What does it make the people who branded him?
I brush my finger over the diamond mark on his shoulder. “Why did they brand you?”
He hesitates. “Contract killings and organized crime in southern Europe have been starting to work together more. Adonis owns the underground and tries to stay neutral. It’s a place where business can be conducted without violence. There’s no fighting of any kind, and this mark is that oath.”
“Why’d you… quit?”
Do assassins put in their two-week notice? I’ll keep the second question to myself despite my growing curiosity.
“My boss—he lied to me, so I turned him in.”
“What did he lie about?”
“He said he was only trafficking weapons. He wasn’t,” Wesley explains. I stare at him, waiting for the end of that sentence. “Girls. He was trafficking young girls.”
I blanch and take an unconscious step back. “What? And you?—”
“Turned him in,” Wesley insists. “Gathered enough intel to put him in jail.”
“But now he’s dead—and Arlo wants to know who did it. Do you know who?”
He shakes his head. “Don’t ask me that.”
Plausible deniability. I don’t argue. There’s no ethical dilemma of whether he killed women, not after meeting Daria. “Did you… did you ever kill kids?”
“No,” he snaps. “Never.”
I shrink under his glare. “Don’t look at me like that! I have no idea how this works.”
“It’s why I wanted to be the one to—” He cuts himself off with a sigh. His gaze lowers. “That’s not the part of me I want you to know.”
Wesley has given me so much of himself, and I see everything he is and can be, but he’s hanging on by a thread. He’s trying to get us out of here and protect me from more than physical violence.
I shift closer. “Last question.” Unlike my sister, I’m not one for confrontation. But I need to know. “Are you in love with me?”
Desperation fills his eyes. “More than you know.”
I swallow the emotion lodging in my throat and close the distance between us, capturing his lips. Despite his rough exterior, his kiss is soft. I shiver when his hand slides to the back of my neck. A territorial feeling rushes into me. This is my Wesley. Gentle, passionate, mine . He doesn’t belong to Daria or this line of business—only me.
I slip my fingers down his chest to his belt. Before I can unbuckle it, he stops me.
“Wait,” he whispers, breathless.
“What’s wrong?”
“I—we can’t.”
I blink. “What?”
“We can’t,” he repeats.
I check his bandages, ensuring it hasn’t bled through and the tape is secure. “Does it hurt?”
“No, it’s not that… Your, uh—your adrenaline, it’s starting to crash.” He takes my hand, and I notice that it’s trembling. In fact, my entire body is tense. I roll my neck, exhaling in satisfaction at the crack. He kisses my fingers. “Today was a lot. Your emotions are heightened; I don’t want to take advantage of you.”
Today, I saw things I never thought I would. I’ve been out of my element for months, but Wesley is the one decision I’ve always been sure of. I tighten my hold. “Yesterday, today, tomorrow. Adrenaline or not, it doesn’t matter—I’ll still want you.”
He sighs, touching my forehead with his. He squeezes my hip. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
The rejection stings, but I tamp down the feeling and step away. “Fine,” I quip, holding his gaze as I unbutton my shorts. “While you be a gentleman”—I slide them off before pulling my T-shirt over my head—“ I’m taking a hot shower.”
I smirk at how hard he’s trying not to break eye contact. I move to turn on the shower, his heated gaze burning my skin. It only takes seconds for the water to warm up. After stripping my bra and underwear—a bit slower than necessary—I step into the walk-in shower. Sex aside, the water and steam ease my aching body. I release an involuntary sigh. Behind me, Wesley remains in the same spot I left him.
I peek around the corner and point to the wrapped bar of soap next to him. “Can you hand me that?”
“Uh—yeah.” He snaps into reality, unwrapping it before bringing it to me. He leans on the edge of the glass wall and watches as I scrub my skin. He bites his lip, gaze frozen. “I don’t know what I did to deserve such a perfect view like this.”
My stomach prickles. Wesley is the first man I feel comfortable being completely naked around. I’m not in a rush to divert his attention. Each part of my body, literally and figuratively, is seen, loved, and worshiped by Wesley.
I lean in as if to kiss him, pressing my breast against his arm. “No one’s asking you to be a gentleman.”
He captures my lips roughly, his tongue prodding and teeth nipping. I giggle as he struggles to get off his shoes and pants as quickly as possible.
“Wait!” With a hand on his shoulder, I stop him from entering. I wince, chiding myself for not thinking this through. “Your bandages. They shouldn’t get wet.”
“Fuck the bandages. I’ve waited too long for you.” He backs me against the wall, connecting our lips as the water sprays on us.
I pull from this kiss and lift a stern finger. “Don’t get my hair wet.”