Chapter 28 Bastian
BASTIAN
Ilowered my little bird to the bed, heaving in air and enjoying the moment.
We’d both just come. Lark was well-pleasured and breathing hard. I loved the sound of her uneven breaths. Loved her body warm against mine.
I’d gorged myself on her all night. Her naked body was bathed by the morning sunlight. Her smooth skin was marred only by small smudges of bruises from my hands and faint markings from my teeth.
I kissed her neck and let my hands drift over her—her soft breasts, the skin of her belly, the dip of her navel, the slick folds between her thighs, coated in our joint release.
She made a cute little sound and burrowed into me.
Her face was tilted my way. Flushed. Lazy. Happy.
“Hey, there,” I murmured.
“Hi.” Her voice was hoarse.
I stroked her back. “Want some coffee?”
“Yep.”
“Breakfast?”
“Yep.”
“I’ll order some omelets.”
She stretched. “I can cook something.”
“I know.” I stroked her buttocks. “But I used you hard. I don’t want you to have to cook.”
She dropped a kiss to my chest. “I used you right back.”
“You sure did. And I liked every second of it. You’re a hot fuck, Lark Smith.”
She grinned.
I glanced at the messy bed. “My housekeeper won’t be happy with the state of these sheets.”
“Let me guess, they’re a billion thread count and expensive.”
I made an amused sound. “Contrary to popular belief, thread count doesn’t necessarily determine quality.”
She rolled her eyes. “But I bet they’re Italian.”
“They are. Sferra. Over a century of Italian textile craftsmanship and they were the first to introduce the world to Giza 45, the highest grade of Egyptian cotton.”
She laughed, a bright, pretty sound, then her smile faded as she studied my face. “The sheets, the food, the fancy penthouse, the tailored suits… They’re all because you didn’t have them growing up.”
I tried not to stiffen. I didn’t talk about my past. Ever. Even Nash and the guys knew very little.
“Yes.” I played with her hair. “Living on the streets, food was never guaranteed. Sometimes it was just stuff I found in trash cans.”
A stricken look crossed her face.
“I went hungry a lot. My clothes were charity. And I definitely didn’t have a comfy bed, let alone nice sheets.”
“Were you alone?”
“I made some friends. But life expectancy on the street isn’t high.”
“What was your name? Before.”
I pressed my thumb to her bottom lip. “Cameron. The firefighter who found me named me Cameron. But I left him behind a long time ago. I vowed to escape the streets, escape poverty. To one day have more money than God.”
“And now you do.” She pressed her cheek to my chest. “I’m glad.”
“Took me a while. I didn’t know how to escape it at first.” I sighed. “Ed was a big part of that.”
She stiffened, and I stroked my hand up her spine.
“He discovered me on the streets, running a very successful pickpocketing gang. Saw potential. I’ll always be grateful for that.”
She nodded. “My name was Hannah. Before.”
“You’re not a Hannah.”
“No. Ed let me pick my new name. My mom, dad, and I used to feed the birds each day at the cabin. There were larks there. I loved spotting the horned lark, with its little, horn-like feathers on its head. So I became Lark. Lark Smith.”
I nuzzled her. “I like Lark a lot.”
She gave me a small smile.
“Come on.” I pinched her buttock. “Get this fine ass dressed while I make us some coffee.”
Soon, I was at my kitchen island with a coffee mug in hand. The lobster omelets had just been delivered. Lark was on her laptop, pouring over Ed’s files.
She froze, her coffee mug halfway to her mouth.
“What?”
“I found something. A cache of hidden photos in Ed’s files. Look at this.”
She turned the laptop so I could see the screen. It was a really old, faded photo that had been scanned. It was of a stern-looking, unsmiling woman and two children—a young boy and girl.
The boy was a very young Ed Galloway.
“That must be his mother and sister,” I said.
“Look at his sister’s hair, Bastian.”
She was wearing a red ribbon.
“Shit.” We’d never know the story of Ed and his family, but something had happened. Something that had left a part of him twisted.
We ate our omelets. Lark kept flicking through Ed’s images on the laptop.
“I should check in with the security team. Nash and the guys might have had some luck going through the evidence from the warehouse.”
I realized she wasn’t listening.
“Lark?’
She looked up. “There’s an image.”
I frowned as she turned the laptop. It was a picture of a young man getting out of a car.
He looked nondescript. Not handsome, not unattractive. Just normal and bland, with short, brown hair. Exactly the kind of guy Ed liked to recruit. He’d always bemoaned my face when he’d started training me.
I looked at the car. It was decades-old. I did a mental calculation. This guy would be slightly older than me now.
“He’d be the right age to be Ed’s accomplice,” she said. “I’ve never seen him before.”
My frown deepened and I studied every inch of the picture. “There’s something familiar about him.” Had I seen him before? Had he been one of Ed’s earlier recruits at the CIA?
“Bastian, I think this is him.” She straightened on the stool. “I think he’s the man who killed my parents.”
“Why?”
“Because Ed named the image Red.”