6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
Good Soldier
Luca
I’m not happy about this.
Not one bit.
There’s nothing exciting about being Simone’s personal bodyguard. Nothing exhilarating about following her everywhere, anticipating her next reckless decision, and dealing with whatever bullshit she decides to throw at me.
It doesn’t help that I’ve now been forced deeper into her life than I ever intended to go.
But I don’t have a choice.
This is my job.
And I always do my job.
Bran is as responsible for this arrangement as Francis. The moment he pulled me aside and started talking about Simone, I knew there would be no escaping her orbit.
“She’s fire,” he said. “She doesn’t listen. She doesn’t slow down. And she sure as hell doesn’t think she needs anyone.”
He dragged one hand through his hair, exhaustion carved into his face.
“But she’s in danger now, whether she admits it or not. I know I already owe you a debt I can never repay, but I’m going to be selfish and ask for one more thing.”
His eyes locked with mine.
“Keep my sister safe.”
I stiffened for less than a second before shaking my head.
He didn’t owe me anything.
And I would protect Simone with my life.
Now I’m standing near the door of Francis’s hospital room with my back against the wall, arms crossed and posture rigid.
My feet ache. My stomach burns with hunger. My throat is as dry as the Sahara.
I ignore all of it.
When I’m working, I don’t matter.
Only my client does.
And with the responsibility I’ve been given, Simone is the only person in this ward who matters—even more than the man sleeping in the hospital bed who signs my paychecks.
She’s curled into a chair across the room with her legs tucked beneath her and a jacket wrapped around her body like a shield.
She changed out of the emerald dress after I told her about Francis.
The jeans and pink shirt are more appropriate for a hospital.
But I liked the dress.
I know she’s still angry with me.
She has every right to be.
She hasn’t spoken to me since our argument in the car. She hates this arrangement with every fiber of her being, and she probably hates the fact that I’m standing here watching her breathe.
That’s fine.
A small, deeply inconvenient part of me misses her sharp remarks. Her sarcastic jabs. Even the open hostility she directs at me whenever I get too close.
But silence is better.
If we pretend the other doesn’t exist, maybe the tension between us will disappear.
I’ve always seen her as Bran’s little sister.
At least, I did until her eighteenth birthday.
Until she kissed me.
Until looking at her began to produce reactions I couldn’t explain away.
For years, I blamed it on the awkwardness left behind by her confession and my rejection. Sometimes, I almost believe that.
Then I catch myself noticing things I have no business noticing.
Or growing irrationally angry when another man touches her.
I need to shut it down.
Bury it somewhere deep enough that it can never surface again.
But it isn’t only her lips I remember from that night.
It’s the way she looked at me.
As though she didn’t see the anger.
The resentment.
The broken pieces I work so hard to keep hidden.
She looked at me as though there was nothing wrong with me.
That’s the part I can’t forget.
Bran left a few hours ago to spend the night with Cassie. Simone refused to leave her father, so here I am, standing guard as though sleep is a weakness I trained out of myself years ago.
Francis is resting.
Simone might be asleep too.
She hasn’t moved in forty-five minutes, and it’s almost three in the morning. Her head is tilted at an awkward angle that will leave her neck aching when she wakes.
I want to adjust her.
Move her gently.
Maybe put a pillow beneath her head.
But touching her would be a mistake.
She would probably skin me alive.
Worse, I don’t trust what touching her might wake inside me.
So I remain where I am.
The only sound in the room is the steady mechanical beep of Francis’s monitors.
That and my thoughts.
They’re so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if Simone could hear them.
Which would be unfortunate, considering nearly every one of them revolves around her.
Her jacket rustles.
At first, I assume she’s adjusting her position.
Instead, she unfolds herself from the chair, slides the jacket from her shoulders, and runs both hands through her tangled hair.
She turns and freezes when she notices me, as though she forgot I would still be here.
Then she looks away and heads toward the door.
“I’m going to the bathroom,” she says flatly.
My body reacts before I can think.
I push away from the wall. “I’ll come with you.”
She snorts. “Funny.”
Then she realizes I’m following her into the corridor.
Her spine stiffens.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Following you.”
“Do you understand how creepy that sounds?”
“We won’t be debating what sounds creepy if someone attacks you in the bathroom.”
She wets her lips.
They’re chapped, probably from how often she’s been biting them.
“Right. Because there’s clearly a gunman waiting beside the hand dryers with a sniper rifle.”
“You never know.”
She looks me over slowly.
“Why don’t you let me piss in your mouth if you’re that desperate to follow me into the bathroom?”
Very inappropriate.
Entirely unnecessary.
Completely Simone.
I’ve known her long enough to understand that most intrusive thoughts travel directly from her brain to her mouth. The two guards stationed outside Francis’s room don’t seem to interfere with that process.
“Funny,” I say, returning her earlier response.
She starts down the hallway.
I follow.
After several steps, she stops and turns toward me with a glare.
“I don’t like this.”
I tilt my head. “I can’t imagine what that feels like. Don’t I look thrilled?”
Simone pinches the bridge of her nose as though she’s attempting to restrain her temper physically.
Then she steps closer.
Her fruity perfume temporarily dismantles my ability to think.
“Don’t make this harder than it already is, Luca.”
She lowers her voice, apparently unwilling to let the guards overhear despite the fact that both men are focused on their surroundings.
“I’m trying to be civil because of my father and my brother. Don’t be a dick.”
My brain betrays me.
Instead of answering immediately, I begin counting the freckles scattered across her cheeks.
“I’m doing my job.”
“Are you?”
She takes another step.
“You aren’t even supposed to be here. You were off duty, remember?”
“Fascinating that you remember my schedule.”
The tips of her ears turn pink. “Don’t flatter yourself. Bran told me.”
“I was assigned.”
I study her face.
Her eyes are deeper than I remember. Brown at first glance, but beneath the dim hospital lights, I can see rings of gold circling her irises.
How have I never noticed that?
“I follow orders,” I finish.
“Right.”
She turns away.
“Good soldier.”
I fall into step behind her without responding.
She marches toward the bathroom like she’s preparing to invade enemy territory. Her hair is messy and her shoulders tense.
She can’t seem to decide whether she’s furious or exhausted.
Probably both.
I begin counting silently.
Three.
Two.
One.
She spins around and points one finger at my chest.
“You know you don’t have to become my father’s lapdog just because he gave you a new leash.”
That’s strangely amusing.
The corner of my mouth might actually move.
“I’m no one’s lapdog, Simone.”
She reacts when I say her name.
It’s slight.
A tiny wince that disappears almost immediately.
She does that sometimes.
I’ve never understood why.
Maybe she dislikes me even more than I realized.
“Lucky me,” she says without smiling.
Then she continues toward the restroom.
We reach for the handle at the same time.
Our hands brush.
Both of us pull back as though an electric current passed between us.
My throat tightens.
“Static,” I say, nodding toward the metal handle.
That’s a fucking lie.
“Right.”
“Wait.”
I knock, then open the door far enough to announce myself before checking the small restroom for occupants, secondary exits, unsecured windows, or anything else that shouldn’t be there.
Simone waits in the doorway with her arms folded.
“Well, soldier?” Her voice carries at least a hundred shades of sarcasm. “Did you find the terrorist waiting for me?”
“No.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes past me.
“You’re such a machine.”
I step back into the corridor and close the door.
Then I count the seconds.
Five minutes later, she emerges with droplets of water sliding from her temples. One hangs from her lower lip before falling onto the damp neckline of her shirt.
Her eyes look brighter, as though she managed to wash away some of the night’s exhaustion.
“Glad to see you survived.”
I expect the usual response.
A glare.
An insult.
Some fresh declaration of how much she despises me.
Instead, she holds my gaze.
Then she parts her lips and deliberately slides her middle finger into her mouth.
My stomach tightens.
The gesture lasts two seconds.
Maybe less.
But it’s long enough for me to watch her lips close around the finger. Long enough to see the moisture glisten beneath the hallway lights when she slowly pulls it free.
She never breaks eye contact.
Then she points the wet finger directly at me, lifts her chin, and says, “Suck my dick, Luca.”
The words hang between us.
Brazen.
Absurd.
And far more provocative than they have any right to be.
Amusement pulls at one side of me while something hotter spreads through the other. My jaw flexes as the burn travels beneath my skin and down my spine.
She just lit a fuse.
And she knows it.
Simone turns and walks back toward Francis’s room without looking over her shoulder.
I exhale slowly through my nose and follow, my pulse beating faster than it should.
She’s infuriating.
Obnoxious.
Impossible.
And fuck me, because right now, she’s dangerously attractive.