Chapter Four
Vik
She was sleeping when I came in.
I know because I checked on her.
Perhaps that was careless of me. I don’t always think clearly after experiencing a failure. My inviting Hannah to stay here meant accepting that my routine would change, so I have no one to blame but myself for what happened last night.
If I’d known she would see me in the laundry, I’d have put her in the east wing. Far away from me. The thought still has its appeal, although it would be unnecessarily cruel.
I guess I could construct a kitchen in one of the spare bedrooms and a living room in another.
Turn her quarters into a little apartment of her own, and we’d never face another incident like last night.
But there is one tremendous fault in this plan that I can’t get past. And it isn’t the smell of bacon and eggs cooking in the frying pan.
It’s that I wouldn’t see her anymore. Not in those sleep shorts hugging her firm, round ass. Not in the teddy-bear t-shirt stretched across her breasts.
I could get used to this.
It may be our first morning together, but the view hooks me. Banishes any notion of shunning her.
“Good morning, Hannah,” I say, entering the kitchen.
I won’t apologize for the state she found me in last night.
I’m not ashamed of my body, or of the way her cheeks flushed at seeing it.
What does unsettle me is how I treated her.
I let my impulses run wild enough to reach out and touch her.
Stepsiblinghood aside, that was a mistake.
Letting anyone get too close to who I am—what I am—could have dire consequences.
“Mornin’.” She smiles over her shoulder. Breakfast is almost ready, so she keeps her attention on the stove.
“Feeling better today?” Her question catches me off guard.
For a moment, I wonder how much she heard last night.
“Excuse me?” My eyes narrow.
“You sounded upset last night,” she says, sliding the bacon around the cast-iron pan with a rubber spatula. “I heard you rattling around when I came out.”
Hmm.
I’ll have to keep my temper under control from now on.
Easier said than done when it’s stretched so thin.
“Bad day.” I brush the subject aside.
It’s more of a lie than the truth. My meeting with the man from the surveillance footage didn’t go as planned. He eventually gave up his secrets, though. I spilled his blood to get them.
It’s almost funny when you think about it.
How strong and menacing people act until they realize their time is up.
He held his tongue for hours, enduring beatings that would break most men.
Hope is a powerful motivator. As long as people believe there’s light at the end of the tunnel, they’ll endure almost anything.
But the moment that light disappears for good, they’ll tell you everything. They’ll scream out their deepest secrets as they fight for one more breath. As visions of everything they’ll never have again flash behind their eyes.
I thrive inside that nightmare scenario.
Not this domesticated bullshit.
“I guess that’s why you rushed out?” she asks, and my blood runs cold. “Did the meeting not go well?”
I grip the edge of the kitchen counter until my knuckles turn white. How does she know about my meeting?
For one dangerous moment, I wonder if she’s been snooping through my things. Was she just waiting for me to leave so she could pry into my private affairs?
And then I remember. A wash of something that almost feels like relief rushes over me. I told her I was meeting investors.
I swallow the growl that’s building in my throat.
“Exactly,” I reply more calmly than I feel. Don’t make the lie bigger than it already is. One word will have to do.
“Well, I bet today’s going to go much better.” She smiles, before plating our breakfast and setting it on the kitchen island. Orange juice and coffee are already waiting.
I can see that she wants to say more. I can see it in the little pout on her lips.
For her sake, I hope she doesn’t.
“How are you?” I ask instead, steering the conversation away from myself.
Rather than making polite conversation about something I don’t care about, I should remind her that curiosity killed the cat. Whatever interest she has in my behavior last night should stay exactly where it belongs—in her own thoughts.
After all, I’ve already set the boundaries. And I’ve forbidden her from entering the parts of the house that might satisfy her curiosity.
“Good,” she answers, a little awkwardly.
I pick up my coffee and take a sip. Lukewarm. Far too sweet.
Not my favorite.
“And the job hunt?” I look at her face now to gauge her reaction. Will she tell me the truth? In all likelihood, I don’t expect much to have changed since yesterday, but it keeps the conversation moving, and her replies might tell me something about how she sees herself and her situation.
I am reminded that small talk isn’t my thing. I’d much rather eat breakfast in silence while thinking about the day ahead—or the night before.
Another adjustment I’ll have to make.
“Also, good,” she says, but the answer catches in her throat, as though her conscience won’t let the lie come easily.
She drinks half a glass of orange juice before trying again.
“In fact, I’ve got an interview today.”
“Wonderful.” My enthusiasm matches hers.
I don’t believe a word of it.
I try to reserve judgment where I can. When Hannah asked for help, I didn’t question her because it wasn’t my place to do so. She’s an adult, and if she doesn’t want to tell me why she needed somewhere to stay, I won’t force the issue.
But now, the hesitation in her voice tells a different story.
It’s hard to believe that a highly qualified nurse can’t find work in New York. That makes me wonder if she lied about how she ended up here.
Not that it matters.
I have enough money to support a thousand lifetimes. Hannah isn’t a financial burden.
Even so, curiosity is getting the better of me.
When we were children, she was always the golden child. Bright-eyed. Full of life. Everything our parents wanted—everything I could never be.
I’ve kept my distance over the years, so I know very little about the family now. Even so, a fall from grace like this doesn’t fit the Hannah I remember.
That leaves one question. What happened? What did she do?
Before I can lose myself in the thought, Hannah’s expression softens.
“But there is something I wanted to talk to you about. Last night...”
I hate where this is going already.
The hard points of her nipples press against the thin fabric of her shirt, making it far too easy to lose track of what she’s saying. I only half listen while I watch her.
“Okay, before I go on, promise you won’t think I’m crazy?” she asks.
Every instinct tells me to stop this now. Shut it down before she says something we’ll both regret.
Instead, I answer. “Okay.”
“I smelled blood on you last night,” she says.
“Blood?” Heat creeps up my neck at her mention of blood.
That’s my fault for getting too close. I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. The meeting had ended in failure. My target had pointed me in the right direction, but I still hadn’t crossed the first name off my list. One of three names. A task that has been decades in the making.
Hannah’s sudden return to my life was always going to complicate things, but making two mistakes in one night is unacceptable.
I should have made the rules clearer.
If I could go back, I’d make sure she understood that her role wasn’t to ask questions. It was to see nothing, say nothing, and forget everything. My life is private by design. Success has never interested me for its own sake. It simply funds what I do after dark.
I round the counter and close the distance between us. She’s so close now that her anxious breath brushes my chin.
This is how I should have greeted her last night. I trap her between the wall and the counter.
I keep her there.
Uncertain.
Off-balance.
Her eyes dart to mine, then lower again as she struggles to stay composed.
Hannah’s curiosity could destroy everything I’ve built. She needs to learn that now. Whether she stays here or walks away, there is a line she cannot cross.
“How did you know it was blood?” I ask, though I already know the answer. I enjoy watching her squirm.
I enjoy seeing her trembling lip and the confusion in her eyes. It amuses me.
This, right now, simply satisfies a different part of me. The part that craves control. The power-hungry fiend I’ve become over the years finds her fear thrilling.
“I’m a nurse,” she says, lifting her hands to her chest. “I’d know that smell anywhere.”
It’s exactly the answer I expected.
I study her face for any sign of deception before easing back a fraction.
Fear exposes lies. I’ve seen it too many times to mistake the truth for anything else.
Hannah isn’t lying. She’s frightened, but she’s telling me exactly what happened.
I decide I’ll let it go.
For now...
“I cut my hand on a prototype in my workshop,” I say at last, answering her original question. At the same time, I hold up my hand. A self-inflicted cut runs across my palm, wrapped in gauze and stained red in places.
These things happen in the heat of the moment. When my mind empties and the darkness takes over. I don’t remember doing them. That’s what happened with this wound. How it came about is a blank. Maybe it happened during the fight with the old British prick.
Either way, my answer seems to satisfy her.
“Oh, God, are you okay?” she asks, reaching for my hand.
I pull it away a fraction too late and her fingers brush mine.
Soft.
Warm.
Even that brief touch lingers longer than it should.
“I’ll be fine,” I say gruffly.
I return to my place behind the kitchen counter, finish my coffee and steal a piece of bacon from the plate.
“Good luck with your interview today, Hannah,” I say before I leave.
I go back to my office. Back to the only place that makes sense.
However, once the door closes behind me, regret begins to simmer beneath my anger.
I’ve shown Hannah too much of myself. Given her a glimpse of the beast beneath the surface. I worry it’ll only make her more curious.
That would be a terrible mistake. Everyone who’s ever looked beneath the surface lies buried beneath the earth.
I sink into my chair and wake the surveillance monitors. This next set of cameras isn’t as important as the last. My next target isn’t a man who hides.
I open the drawer of my desk.
The Colt isn’t there. Instead, my hand closes around an old newspaper clipping. The headline reads: HOME INVASION LEAVES ONE DEAD, CHILD INJURED
I’ve always hated that headline.
One dead.
Not a name.
Just a body count. You have to read halfway through the article before she becomes a person.
That’s what sells. Death. Not the life that was lost.
I read it again.
As I always do.
Sara B. was found dead this morning after a home invasion... Reports suggest her son survived when the culprit fled after hearing approaching sirens... Police believe the suspects have ties to an organized crime syndicate... The investigation remains ongoing...
The police have been investigating ever since.
They still have no names. Have made no arrests.
That’s where I come in. It’s my task to right the wrongs this city gave up on years ago.
Last night ended in failure. Tonight may be no different.
But I won’t quit the way everyone else has.
Not until I’ve brought her justice.