Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Kieran
Iwas a hitman for hire. A killer on the loose. I ended lives. Never saved them. I learned many years ago that snuffing out the rotten was much easier than trying to protect the innocent.
You know why?
Innocence—pure good—is harder to find than rot.
And then, surprisingly, it was there, disguised behind a desperate proposition and two-toned eyes. The war-torn cynic in me whispered that this had to be some kind of scam, but still, I couldn’t resist his pull.
And for the first time in my adult life, I wanted to protect someone instead of kill them. I wasn’t good at keeping things alive. The fading plants on my windowsill were proof. My skill set was much more suited to elimination, and I knew it was better if I just stuck with what I knew.
He will only disappoint you.
“Your bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment,” he said, trailing out of the dim hallway and into the living room.
His hair was just as wild as when I’d sent him to shower, and the clothes I’d given him—sweats I usually wore to work out—hung off his slight frame in a way that made my chest ache.
“Did you even wash your hair?” I demanded.
Haz stopped behind the leather sofa, eyes wide beneath the wild mane. “How could I?” he asked. “With eight stitches in my head and only one hand, it seemed like a recipe for disaster.”
I was surprised a little hazard like him even realized when something was a bad idea. It seemed he stumbled through life with no forethought at all.
“I washed the rest of me, though,” he volunteered when I said nothing more. “Even managed to keep my hand dry.”
I did not find it adorable in the least the way he held up his bandaged hand, proudly showing off the still-dry dressing.
“Your shower is so nice. The water was hot, and the soap smelled so good.”
Silence stretched between us, and he shifted from foot to foot. When he lowered his arm, the sleeve of the sweatshirt slid over his bandaged hand, concealing it completely from view. “A-are y-you mad?”
I’d learned he had a tendency to stutter when he was nervous, which seemed to be a chronic condition.
“No,” I replied, turning my back so I didn’t give in to the urge to hug him.
I am not a lover but a fighter.
Silence blanketed the room, the only sound the clicking of the gas burner on the stove as I turned it off. Grabbing the handle of the pot I was using, I shifted over to the countertop to a large black bowl.
I didn’t need to look to know Haz was in the same spot, still bouncing from one bare foot to the other.
“Come eat,” I told him, hoping the clear directive would give him something to focus on.
Partway through ladling the soup into the bowl, I turned to glance over my shoulder. He’d come closer but was still in the living room.
“Sit there,” I said, motioning to the island.
I turned back to my task and nearly smiled when the legs of a barstool scraped against the floor as he pulled it out to sit down.
I placed a steaming bowl of chicken noodle soup in front of him, along with a napkin, spoon, and some crackers, then turned away to get a glass of water from the fridge.
When I brought it back, I noted how motionless he was as he stared down at the bowl.
“Do you not like soup?” I asked.
“Where’s yours?”
“I already ate.”
His swallow was so thick I heard from the other side of the island. “Y-you made this for me?”
“It’s from a can,” I deadpanned.
When Haz looked up, his expression wasn’t one I recognized, yet it still had the power to tie my insides into a knot. His green and blue eyes trailed toward the stove where the pot was cooling, the empty can beside it.
“You heated it up and everything,” he said, eyes drifting back to the bowl like it was a bag of money instead of soup with far too much sodium. “There’s even crackers.”
“I’m out of bread,” I found myself confessing as if, suddenly, crackers weren’t good enough. As if I cared.
“No one’s ever made me soup before,” he whispered.
Not even the inner skeptic in me could demand he was lying. His surprise was palpable, and the way it filled the room made it a little hard to breathe.
“Eat before it gets cold.”
He picked up the spoon like he was handling a set of fine china and not a hunk of steel and dipped it into the bowl, swirling around the liquid. “There’s carrots too.”
In my profession, I was highly sought after, the very best at what I did. My bank account was proof. But suddenly, the millions I’d amassed for all the jobs well done seemed insignificant to the value he seemed to place on this paltry bowl of overprocessed soup.
It made me angry, to be honest. Angry something so simple meant so much to him and angry the soup wasn’t homemade.
The sound of obnoxious slurping filled the kitchen, and I grimaced.
“Mmm. Oh my God,” he moaned. “This is the best soup I’ve ever had.” He shoved another heaping spoonful into his mouth, slurping as he pulled it free. The action made my dick stir. “Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“No,” I rasped. “Eat it all.”
He grabbed up a cracker, shoved the entire thing in his mouth, and then crushed another in his hand and dropped the crumbles into his soup. The entire time he ate, he wiggled in the chair and made noises of appreciation.
“When’s the last time you ate?” I asked, wondering why he seemed like a starved animal. Completely mannerless.
He paused and tilted his head as though he had to think about it. “Yesterday,” he concluded and went back to eating.
Astonished, I glanced at the clock. It was nearly midnight. “You haven’t eaten at all today?”
He shrugged and shoveled more soup and crackers into his mouth.
I went to the fridge and pulled it open, scanning the contents, and reached for the last container of rice pudding. This was not prepackaged but homemade. I tried not to eat many sweets, but when I did, I made them at home to try and eliminate all the crap they dumped in food these days.
I took off the lid and placed the glass bowl in the microwave. Halfway through, I stirred it and put it back in to warm the rest of the way. Once finished, I added a splash of cream and sprinkled cinnamon and sugar over the top. The smell was incredible and made me want to take a bite.
Instead, I slid it beside the now-empty bowl of soup. “Eat that too,” I ordered.
He dove in without even asking what it was and moaned more than the actors in a porno.
Completely indecent. But so erotic.
“I don’t know what this is, but I think it’s my new favorite,” he said, spoon scraping against the bowl. “I just got a raisin!”
“They’re good fiber,” I told him as warmth flooded my limbs from watching him enjoy something I’d made.
This was how you kept things alive, right? You fed them. And not from a can but with the effort of your own hands.
When all the food was gone, I pointed to the untouched glass of water.
“I’m already hydrated,” he whined. “My organs are floating!”
Ridiculous. “Drink it.”
Sighing heavily, he swiped the glass and downed it without even a breath. When he was finished, he looked at me, and I nodded. “Good doll.”
A fine blush bloomed over his already pink cheeks, turning the rash a full-blown shade of red.
“I’m not a doll,” he grumped, sliding off the stool. The second his feet hit the ground, he swayed, knocking into the seat he’d just vacated.
I tsked and moved to loop my arm around his waist and pull him in, our bodies pressing together this way for the first time.
Our significant size difference was noticeable but a mere afterthought to the way he felt against me.
The longer I remained in his presence, seeing his unabashed reactions to literally everything, hearing him moan, and being tempted by the narrow collarbone exposed by the too-large neckline of my sweatshirt, the more I had to remind myself that he had a head injury. That he needed rest.
I could not under any circumstances carry him to my bed and mark him all over, make him mine.
“Are you still feeling dizzy?” I asked, voice giving away the desire I felt.
“I just stood up too fast,” he replied, trying to step away.
I tightened my grip, keeping him close. “To me, you are,” I murmured.
“What?” he wondered, head falling back so he could gaze up at me, nose wrinkled in confusion.
It was criminal how utterly adorable he was.
“The picture of innocence, incorruptible, and delicately beautiful, just as dolls are.”
A new blush made his face flame, and I enjoyed my front-row seat to its bloom.
“Dolls can also be nightmares. Haven’t you ever seen Chucky?”
Arching one eyebrow, I asked, “Should I be afraid to sleep next to you?”
His lips parted with a breathless gasp. “What?”
“It’s after midnight. Time for bed.”
He wrenched free and stumbled toward the sofa. “I’m not sleeping with you!”
“Why not?”
He sputtered and flung out his arms. “This place is massive. Surely, there’s more than one bedroom.”
I shook my head. “Afraid not.”
He patted the back of the sofa. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“A couch is not a bed.”
He scoffed lightly. “This is way better than my bed at home.”
I countered, “If you sleep on the couch, how will I check on you throughout the night?”
He shook his head adamantly. “Y-you don’t n-need to. The doctor said waking a head injury patient every hour so they don’t fall into a coma is just a myth.”
I pursed my lips. “Are you a virgin?”
“No!”
“Then why does it matter if we share a bed? I’m not going to take advantage of you.”
His eyes lowered to the floor. One foot piled on top of the other, and his toes wiggled.
“Haz.”
“I’ve never slept with anyone before,” he rushed out.
“But you just said—”
“I’ve had sex. But I’ve never slept with anyone.”
Unchecked possession roared through me, so pungent I thought it might be adrenaline. I wasn’t surprised he wasn’t a virgin, but hearing there was another first that was not spoken for?
It was mine.
I was taking it.
I refused to take no for an answer.