Chapter 8 Lark
LARK
Ibucked hard, trying to knock Bastian off me.
It was futile. He was too big, too strong. That body was all muscle. The suits camouflaged it well, but I was well aware that he was fit and dangerous.
The plastic zip ties cut into my skin, but that didn’t bother me. I’d escaped plenty of places with my hands tied.
“You’re going to listen to me,” he said.
My heart started racing. “No!” I shoved my hips up.
All that did was allow him to settle his body more fully into mine. I felt every hard inch of him.
My own traitorous body went haywire. Heat curled inside me and my skin flushed.
Damn. I tried to tell myself it was a normal reaction. Bastian was a very attractive man. It was biology. It didn’t mean anything.
God, I was such a liar.
“Lark.” Strong fingers caught my jaw. I tried to look away but he forced me to meet his gaze.
I fought the urge to bite my lip. I noted the jagged scratches I’d left on his face, and dammit, a part of me felt bad about them. His eyes were so dark, like chips of obsidian. But they weren’t cold, and I thought they were beautiful. Right now, they were filled with emotions I couldn’t untangle.
But I definitely discerned concern and sadness.
For me.
No. I didn’t need anyone’s care or concern, or pity. I dealt with everything myself. I didn’t depend on anyone. That was how I liked it.
I’d never even let Ed all the way in.
“Let me go.”
“No.” Bastian released a sigh. “I need to explain about Ed. I should’ve done it a long time ago.”
“Bastian…” I hated that my voice was a little wobbly, little more than a murmur.
“It’s time, Lark.”
“No,” I whispered.
“Yes.” His dark gaze bored into mine. “He was killing people. Not like us. Not sanctioned contract hits.” A sad look crossed his face. “They weren’t even unsanctioned kills of bad guys. He was killing for fun.”
Anger surged inside me, burning, scalding. “No.” I bucked again.
He held me down. “You must have seen the signs.”
I twisted violently. Images of Ed flickered through my mind.
The man who’d pulled a terrified little girl from a closet.
He’d looked like a normal guy, a favorite uncle—fit, brown hair, friendly face that had gotten a little more grizzled as he’d aged.
He was the man who’d given me my own room, who’d trained me to protect myself, who’d helped me with my homework.
The man who’d kept me safe.
I tried to break free of Bastian’s hold, but he was too strong.
“He picked victims, stalked them, then killed them in their homes.” Bastian’s voice was devoid of emotion.
A low, animal sound echoed through the room.
I realized it came from me. I didn’t want to hear this.
“Lies. You’re trying to make up an excuse for killing him.”
“I’d never lie to you. I remember that I promised you that when we first met. When you were ten.”
He had. I remembered being dazzled by the handsome nineteen-year-old. He’d been kind to me, and it had broken through the shock of those early days.
“I loved him too, Lark. It broke something in me to know that he was capable of this.”
My throat locked. It felt like claws were ripping my chest open. I sagged against him.
Bastian’s gaze was on me. After a beat, he eased back.
And I attacked.
I reared up, and rammed my tied hands into his handsome face.
He cursed. I got a leg free and rammed it up as best I could.
It didn’t hit where I was aiming for, but it slammed into his thigh. With a grunt, he rolled off the couch.
I scrambled up on the couch, standing on the cushions. I kicked at him.
He blocked my foot with his arm, but I jumped and kicked my other leg at his head.
It connected. Hard. He fell.
I crashed into the couch, bouncing on the cushions.
Then, there was a sickening crack, and I rolled to my knees.
Bastian was lying on the rug beside the fancy coffee table. Not moving.
“Bastian?” My heart lodged in my throat and my chest locked.
Leaping off the couch, I scrambled over to him, carefully avoiding the broken glass I’d smashed earlier. The sharp scent of spilled alcohol hit me, but my full focus was on Bastian.
There was blood on the side of his head. He’d hit the corner of the coffee table.
“No, no, no.” I knelt beside him, pressing my fingers to his neck.
A strong, steady pulse.
Relief poured through me. I pressed my palm to that pulse, savoring it, drawing it in. I wasn’t going to think about that, or the fact that I was supposed to want him dead.
I swallowed.
Fuck. Reaching out, I pulled a throw pillow off the couch and gently slid it under his head. I pushed some of that thick, dark hair back off his face. He was so still.
I drank in his hawkish features. He had such a force of personality that I realized I’d missed some details. Like his thick eyelashes, the small mole high on one cheekbone, the faded scar on the top of his lips.
I brushed my finger gently over the thin, white scar. Then I gently touched the graze and the bump on the side of his head.
“He’s not hurt badly,” I whispered to myself. “He’ll be fine.”
Rising, I went to the kitchen and quickly cut the zip ties with a knife. I rummaged around in the cabinets and found his first aid kit.
Heading back to the couch, I once again dodged the broken items and glass. Our fight had made a mess of his shiny penthouse.
He was killing people.
Bastian’s words echoed in my head. I closed my eyes, my hand clenching the first aid kit tight.
He was killing for fun.
My stomach revolted. Dropping the first aid kit, I rushed to the powder room.
It was dark and moody like the rest of the penthouse.
The walls were dark gray, a rectangular mirror glowed with a bronze light, and the vanity was veined marble.
Ignoring the decor, I dropped to my knees in front of the toilet and was violently ill.
Ed. My savior had been a murderer.
I sucked in some deep breaths.
“Get a grip, Lark.” I lifted a shaky hand. “Deal with it later.”
Pushing back the ugly truth and the emotions deep inside me, I rose. I quickly rinsed out my mouth.
I couldn’t deal with it now. I needed to get out of here. I needed to get somewhere safe.
I hurried back to Bastian. He hadn’t moved, and worry nipped at me. How badly had he hit his head? I checked his pulse again, caressed it, seduced by his strong heartbeat. By the life I felt there.
Ripping open the first aid kit, I quickly cleaned his head wound, then pressed a bandage to his temple.
Pushing to my feet, I stared down at him for a long while.
Then I crouched and rummaged in the pocket of his pants—not taking note of his hard thighs under the fabric. I held his phone up to his face to unlock it.
I scrolled to Nash’s name and hit the button. The call connected.
“Bastian?” There was a pause. “Bastian?”
I ended the call.
His friends would come and check on him. I set the phone on the coffee table beside the first aid kit, then I glanced at him one more time.
He’ll be fine.
I forced myself to leave.
I found the knife I’d lost in the chaos of our fight and slid it into its sheath.
My world was crumbling around me. Knowing the truth about Ed… It felt like the ground had turned soggy under my feet.
Everything I’d believed in was a lie.
I wasn’t sure where to step, who to trust, or what was safe.