Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
MAVEN
I got fucking caught!
How the fuck did I get caught?
It was stupid; I know that. This is what happens when you go into something without doing your damn research and without a solid plan.
My breath catches at the thought running rampant in my head as I look down, packing a bag to go to Vegas to get married.
My stomach churns. Why he wants to marry me, I don’t know.
But I’m going to make it my mission to understand.
And in what fucking realm do you kill someone and then the person who catches you—who happens to be a police detective—forces you to marry them?
Maybe I didn’t give the bastard enough credit for how fucking crazy he is.
He always seems to hold back around me, but when I watched him taste my blood, something clicked inside me, and I realized I’m not dealing with someone normal.
And I hated the fact that it turned me on.
This detective, with whom I’ve been playing a game, has probably been playing a game with me all along too.
I’m well aware he’s been watching me, but I was sure that no one followed me to that house, and yet he somehow showed up after I murdered his friend.
He didn’t even seem to care that his friend was dead in the shower.
If there weren’t red flags before, there definitely are now.
So that leaves me here, packing a bag after I left my DNA at a crime scene, thinking I can trust him.
I’m pacing in agitation when my bedroom door opens and in he walks. He’s dressed exactly the same as he was when I saw him less than an hour ago—blue button-up shirt, rolled up at the sleeves and tucked into black slacks, his gun holstered at his hip. He looks good.
He smirks, and I realize he’s doing it to piss me off.
“Did you do it?” I ask.
He pulls out his phone and shows me video evidence of Marcus’s house burning. As I reach for the phone, he quickly snatches it back and places it in his pocket.
“Are you packed?” he questions.
“How did you get in?” My front door is always locked, and I have security cameras all around my apartment.
“I have a key.” He grins and then produces said key.
“How the hell did you get that?” I whisper.
“It’s quite easy to make a copy of a key that’s in the possession of someone who is in our possession.” He’s talking about Carrie and when she was arrested.
“I’m sure that’s illegal,” I scoff, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Oh, very.” He nods, agreeing.
“Tell me why you want to marry me.”
“I will, after we’re married.” He glances around my room, taking it all in, then pauses at an open drawer. My pink toy is visible, as are all my others.
“I’m not having sex with you.”
His gaze slides back to me, and all he does is give me a smirk.
A fucking smirk.
Asshole.
“Don’t you want to see how big I am?” His attention goes back to my toy. “I know you’re dying with curiosity.”
“It’s probably small,” I throw out.
His smirk doesn’t leave his lips, even at the insult.
“How much does a detective actually make?” I ask.
I’ve been quiet for most of the ride here, trying to analyze how I’m going to get out of this.
He’s been just as quiet, occasionally shooting me glances from the corner of his eye.
I don’t think the silence bothers him the way it bothers me.
I knew I would be the first one to talk, and I’m pretty sure he knew it too.
Regardless, we flew on a private plane to Las Vegas and are staying at a five-star hotel.
Surely, from what he makes, it would put a big dent in his wallet.
I noticed he requested a room with a single king-sized bed. He’s been carrying my bags since we got off the plane, and he throws them on the bed before turning around and unbuttoning his shirt. As he undoes each button, he keeps his eyes on me.
“You want to know my income?”
“Surely, you aren’t able to afford all this.”
“What if I told you I was good at saving and investing?”
“Still…”
His shirt gapes open, and I get a good look at his bare chest. I bite my bottom lip as I stare. His sculpted muscles are on display, with a few deep, raised scars on his abdomen that seem to wrap around his stomach.
“You have to have money.”
“And what about your money?” he asks, and kicks off his black boots before unbuttoning his pants. His gaze never leaves mine.
“What about it?” I cross my arms over my chest.
“You have a lot of it, and don’t give me your bullshit about being a freelancer.”
“You tell me first, and then I’ll tell you.” I shoot him a saccharine smile.
He pushes his pants down and drops them in a heap on the floor, leaving him only in boxers. I can’t help but stare. He turns, showing me his round ass, and bends down to get a fresh pair of clothes out of his bag. His pants look identical to the pair he just took off, but the shirt is black.
“I get bonuses for making certain people disappear,” he tells me. I stare at him in disbelief. Is that the truth, or is it just some trick to get me to confess more?
“You kill them?” I ask, my hands falling to my sides.
“Yes.” He shrugs. “Now, how do you get yours?” He pauses for beat, then says, “I must say, watching you kill is rather fascinating. You’re quite skilled, and the research I did on you—”
“Research?” I ask, cutting him off.
“You didn’t think it was luck that I found you, do you?”
“Well…” I trail off because I don’t actually know.
“No. And truth be told, I wasn’t sure if I should turn you in or keep you,” he confesses.
“I get paid to kill,” I finally admit. I watch for his reaction. His fingers pause in the process of buttoning up his shirt, and he lifts his head, his slate-gray eyes finding mine.
“You’re a hitwoman?”
I roll my eyes. “I prefer assassin; it has a better ring to it.”
“How long have you been doing it?”
I shrug, smiling. “Years. And I’m good at it.”
“I caught you,” he reminds me as he finishes with his shirt, then puts his boots back on.
“That was a mistake. I shouldn’t have let my emotions get the better of me,” I say, bristling.
“I know. I sent that video to you,” he says, and my mouth falls open.
“What? I knew you were hiding something behind that annoying-girl act. I just had to see what it was. I was pleasantly surprised as I watched you break into his house. You’re quite gifted.
” I can hear the pride in his voice. “Which tells me you do it often. But how often is the question.
“I assumed you liked to rob people, but as I watched you kill Marcus, I knew you were more than just a thief.” His eyes narrow. “You stopped killing with venom many years ago, didn’t you, Venom?”
I freeze. Hearing that name is like ice sliding across my spine.
“Venom. That name ring a bell?”
My stomach drops. My heels press into the floor harder than they should. My hands clench at my sides, and I blink. “You … you know?” My voice comes out tight, more breath than words.
He doesn’t answer immediately, just tilts his head with the faintest smirk on his lips. “You think I wouldn’t?”
My chest tightens. My jaw aches from clenching. That name is supposed to be buried. And yet, here he is, tossing it at me like a knife.
My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms. My mind races, and I realize how exposed I feel under the intensity of his attention. He sees too fucking much.
“Why use venom?” he asks softly, almost casually, but I feel the weight behind it. Every word presses hard against my skin.
I shrug and force a laugh, sharp and brittle. “Hate getting blood on my heels.”
He steps closer, and it’s impossible to ignore the heat of him, the way his presence fills the room, the way my pulse quickens without my permission. His gaze doesn’t waver, and I catch the faintest edge of amusement there, like he senses the storm raging inside me.
“You’re good,” he murmurs. “Better than I thought. Smarter too.”
I swallow hard, the room suddenly too small. I want to reach for something, anything, but there’s nothing. Nothing but him and the truth he’s holding over me.
And somewhere deep inside, a reckless part of me thrills at it. Thrills at the danger, the challenge, the fact that he knows and I can’t hide from him. But I don’t want to think about that right now, so I abruptly change the subject.
“Red ones.”
“What?”
I lick my suddenly dry lips. “I like to wear red heels to hide the blood stains.” Where most men would cower or shrink back in revulsion, Boston does the opposite.
He looks at me like I’m something precious.
Something fascinating. His gaze trails from my eyes to my mouth, down my body, toward my feet.
And I feel it like it’s a physical caress.
“But since it’s our wedding day, darling, you can buy me a nice new pair of black heels to match my trapped and withering soul.”
“I’ll be back. Start getting ready.” He walks past me.
“Where are you going?”
“Work. But I’ll be back.”
“You don’t work here,” I say to his back.
“Get ready, Dynamite. Don’t be fucking late.”
“Fuck you.”
“Oh, my soon-to-be wife, I intend to fuck you,” he croons just before stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him.
I turn and fall onto the bed, my face hitting the mattress.
What am I doing?
And more importantly…
How do I get out of it?