CHAPTER THREE
Madrid, four months later
I scan the perimeter of the room, ignoring the glittering ball gowns and black tuxes of the guests. They are not my target. Tonight, the hostess is my prey. Fitting to label her as such, I think, since she preys on children and sells them into human trafficking rings.
Her specialty is boys, and since boys demand a higher price than girls, she lives a luxurious life while they suffer. While her victims are degraded and made to serve adults who have no business breathing. If I could take out every last one of those monsters in one fell swoop, I would, but I will settle for taking out the supplier.
I recognize her face from the picture my contact gave me, hidden inside a second-edition copy of Dickens’ Oliver Twist. As a server passes by, tray balanced on the tips of his fingers, I set my half-empty glass of champagne on it and then make my move.
“Excuse me,” I say, giving the redhead my most charming smile. “I’m in need of assistance, and you look to be the woman for the…job.”
Vibrant blue eyes assess me, clearly excited by my attention, and I briefly wonder if perhaps my contact is mistaken about her. Or perhaps she’s been forced into this by another—one who holds all the power in her miserable life—because my target has a reputation for selling her own body as well.
But she smiles, and in that smile, I can see the evil that lives inside of her. I have seen it countless times before.
“Only assistance?”
“I’ve a need for what only you can provide.”
A coy smile covers her lips. “Just me?”
I raise a brow. “Only you…for now.”
She leans closer. “Meet me at the top of the stairs in ten minutes.”
Taking her hand, I bring it to my lips, a parody of a kiss, when all I want to do is finish the job.
I slam her against the wall, giving her a wicked smile even as my mostly healed shoulder pulls a little. She laughs wildly. We’re in my hotel room, and she thinks this is foreplay. She thinks this is a mere prelude. What she thinks is going to happen tonight, never will. I don’t fuck my targets.
“God, I knew you were perfect for me.” She bites my neck, and it takes all my self-control not to break hers in return.
Instead, I gentle my caress, running my finger down the line of her throat, all the way to the deep v of her cleavage. She grabs my wrist and forces it to her throat. The silver ring on my thumb gleams, catching my attention. I rub the bottom of it, imagining the sound of the click that springs the deadly needles into action.
She’ll never see this coming. She’ll never feel anything beyond the sting of a mosquito bite. This isn’t my chosen method, because I don’t have a calling card beyond death. There’s nothing in each kill that will identify me as the killer. Only whispers of who I am follow in my wake.
“You can squeeze,” she pants, and I oblige her. She grimaces slightly. “Something bit me.”
“Did it?” I loosen my grip on her and slowly turn away. Walking to the bar in my suite, I pour myself a drink.
“What the hell did you do to me?”
Turning, I lift the glass to my mouth. “Only what you deserved.”
Her face pales, contrasting starkly with her red hair. “You’re him,” she gasps, and then smiles slightly. “I always thought I’d get the Skinner.”
“You still could,” I mock, and then take a drink.
She slumps to the floor, like a marionette whose strings are finally cut. Her eyelids droop. “Tell my mother I’m sorry.”
“But not the children whose lives you destroyed?”
“Don’t judge me because we sin differently,” she slurs. “We’re the same.”
“We are not the same.” I throw my glass against the wall, purposely missing her by inches. “I do not kill the innocent.”
A huff of air. “Exactly. The. Same.” Her eyes close, and she lists to one side.
Soon, her heartbeat will slow, her lungs will cease to draw in sufficient air, and her muscles will become so relaxed that her bowels will expel all the waste they store. I’ve been told that on some level, the poisoned know this, that they are at least partially aware of their body shutting down, of the indignity of their death. I take one last look at the woman on the floor.
“I pray to God that he has no mercy on your soul.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I make a call.
“Service?” I don’t recognize the voice, but I do know that all traces of the body will be removed from my hotel room as quickly and discreetly as possible.
“Maid, please,” I reply and then hang up, tossing the phone on the bed a second later. I pull a clear bottle out of my pocket. Inside is a most useful liquid for a man in my line of work. The liquid destroys all evidence of DNA with just a simple misting and wipe-down, or I could use bottle number two and simply replace my DNA with another’s. Either way, this hit will never be traced back to me.
After spraying down everything—including the body and the broken glass—I exit the room.
I return to the States on a Wednesday morning, the red-eye flight getting me back in time to open shop for Everly’s visit. I look forward to it even more than usual, since this will be her first visit to my shop in months.
Since my trip to the hospital, Everly and I have grown a bit closer, despite my resistance. The woman is, for lack of a better word, determined to be in my life.
The day I was discharged, she’d shown up with a spectacularly gaudy Get Well Soon balloon and offered to drive me home. Thankfully, and yet completely regrettably, my cousin, Benjamin Romanov, had arrived that morning to oversee my rehabilitation.
Something I appreciated, yet despised. A small part of me had hoped that the Bratva would forget about the man known as Roman Smith. That perhaps getting shot was divine intervention and I could be free to pursue Everly.
In the following months, I had to close my shop while I recuperated, watched for signs of Petrov’s return, and had the entire place cleaned of the forensics powder the police had left behind. Though every Wednesday, I would sit on a bench in a small park by my shop and wait for Everly. Always, I would stay by her side while she read from one of the books I delivered to her.
I’m a glutton for punishment, I suppose, but in those quiet moments, I felt at peace with the world. I had the most lovely, most beautiful woman within arm’s reach, and I soaked her presence in. She didn’t try to force me to talk to her, though she did her best to get me to open up.
“What’s your favorite book?” she asks, setting her latest Zoe Ambrose novel down.
“The kind that makes me the most money,” I say, breaking off a piece of bread and throwing it to the birds in the park.
She rolls her eyes, and I bite back a grin. “Seriously, Roman. Tell me.”
“Saint-Exupéry’s The Little Prince,” I say softly. “My mother read it to me as a child before bedtime.”
She doesn’t make one of her gentle jokes at this. Instead, she inches closer to me, so close that our thighs are touching. “That’s a sweet memory to share with me.”
It’s a true memory. I pick up her book and examine it. “While you are reading a very raunchy scene.”
Blushing, she laughs. “It’s not raunchy. It’s romantic.”
We both grow quiet, and I hand the book back to her. Romantic. I can’t offer her straight-up fucking, much less romance.
“Fantasy is good,” I murmur, and she beams at me.
“Thanks for not making fun of what I read.” Her hand reaches for mine, but I move it out of the way. She makes a little face, then goes back to her reading.
The moment has passed, but I can’t help wondering what it would have been like to give in.
A gust of sharp wind brings me back to the present, and I blink.
For reasons known only to God, Everly sees something in me. Something she wants to touch and hold. I feel the same way about her. When I see Everly, all I see is pure goodness and beauty.
Yet, each time I look at my hands, at the tattoos that are inked so deeply into my skin I’ll never be able to remove them, I see blood. My fingers may as well be twisted and charred, oozing with blood, with the sins that I committed in the name of ridding the world of scum.
And not for the first time, I wonder what Everly would do if I confessed the truth.
“Exactly the same.” The redhaired woman’s words slither into my head.
A plaintive meow breaks through my clouded head, and I turn to find a small cat sitting by the back door. Its fur is an odd shade of bluish-gray.
Kneeling, I rub its head. “Lost, little one?” I’ve always had an affinity for animals, from the time I was a child. A weakness my father said I inherited from my mother’s family. Animals were meant to serve us, to do our bidding, not perform tricks.
I scoop up the purring cat, heading in the direction of the local shelter. Everly won’t be here for at least thirty more minutes, so I have time to get this bit of fluff there.
“Ridding the world of mice, eh?” I croon as the familiar brick building comes into sight. The door opens, and an older woman with black hair liberally streaked with gray comes out. Mrs. Tatum is the director of the rescue shelter. Bangles on her wrists jingle as they crash against one another.
When she sees me, she smiles—her expression genuine and warm, much like Everly’s.
“Mr. Smith, how are you today?” Her gaze zeroes in on the bundle in my arms and the smile melts away, leaving behind a frown so sad that grooves appear in the side of her mouth. “Ah, I wish you hadn’t brought it.”
I glance down at the cat. Yellow eyes regard me thoughtfully. “She can’t eat that much. I’m more than happy to donate food—”
“That’s not it.” She lets out a thick sigh. “We can’t take any more animals for at least a week. If they are left here, then we have to euthanize them.”
“I’ll take her home with me,” I immediately say, uncaring that even something as small as a cat can complicate my life.
“I’ll stop by later with some supplies for you,” Mrs. Tatum says.
Without further ado, I hurry back to my shop and await Everly’s return.
Naturally, Everly loves my cat. Naturally, the cat hates Everly and hisses as soon as the woman attempts to hold her.
“Perhaps I should put her in the back?” I whisk the cat away, placing her in a nearly empty storeroom. There’s some cat food in a bowl, a small dish of water, a litter box, and a blanket—all courtesy of Mrs. Tatum. But the damned cat bolts out of the room before I can shut the door and disappears into my shop.
When I return, Everly is digging through her box. She stops when she sees me. “Does it bother you?”
“That the cat doesn’t like you? Not particularly.”
Everly tilts her head to one side. “The cat will come around, but I was speaking about the robbery.” Her gaze flicks to my shoulder and lower still to my thigh, as if she can still see the bullet holes. “I don’t know if I could ever come back here if it had happened to me.”
“You’re a lot stronger than you think,” I say, and she blushes a little.
“And you’re incredibly strong.” She hefts the box and takes it to her usual spot, sitting down and curling her legs up beside her. “I won’t have an order for next week.”
A sort of panic sets in, my heart beating in staccato at the thought of her not making her weekly visit. Though we haven’t made much progress—okay, I haven’t made much progress—in our conversations, I can’t help but wonder how lonely my store would be without her in it. Actually, I do know. Six days a week, I know how it feels. It’s fucking miserable.
I’m fucking miserable.
“Why is that?”
“Out-of-town guest.”
Male or female? It hadn’t occurred to me that Everly could be in a relationship with anyone, because every Wednesday at precisely four o’clock, Everly Andrews is mine.
The bell on the door rings and once again, Everly’s eyes widen, but this time, it’s in pure terror. “Roman…someone’s here. Maybe you should call the cops,” she says, her voice shaky. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out pepper spray and a cell phone. “Here.”
Pepper spray versus a gun? Jesus.
Quickly, I check the monitor, taking note of the face before striding to her.
Carefully, I kneel beside the chair. Her scent washes over me, lightly floral and completely feminine. “You are perfectly safe. We’re perfectly safe. The man who just walked in is an old friend of mine.” Actually, he is more than a friend. Growing up, he was my mentor—a man who taught me far more than my own father. I trust him with my life.
Everly exhales, her body trembling. I take her hand in mine, reveling in the contact. She’s just as soft as I remember, her skin just as satiny and delicate. “Let’s put away the pepper spray, shall we, before it goes off on its own.”
She rewards me with a tremulous smile. I allow my thumb to pass over a knuckle, and her breath hitches. She leans forward slightly, mahogany waves spilling over her shoulders. Our eyes meet, and I’m helpless in this moment. The last time she was this close to me, I’d been shot.
Now, I’m perfectly healthy and perfectly willing to take her to my bed. Because of her, I haven’t been with anyone in months. Months. The thought of using another as a replacement for her leaves my mouth as dry as ashes in a dead hearth.
“Your friend,” she says, her lips inches from mine. Plump and pink.
Lickable.
I want to devour her, starting with that mouth.
“He’s browsing.”
She covers my hand with hers, but not to pull it away. Instead, she squeezes, and my dick gets hard. I close my eyes. This is no way to react to her still-present fear, but my body knows who’s touching it.
“Have lunch with me on Friday.”
My eyes pop open. “Pardon?”
“Lunch. You and me, we’ll eat and talk about books and non-shooting things. We won’t mention bullets or hospitals or nightmares of seeing a friend covered in blood,” she says, her smile quivering at the corners.
“You had nightmares?”
She nods. “I didn’t think I could ever come back here again.”
“Why did you?”
A little shrug and she looks away. I turn her face back to mine with my free hand. Heat arcs between us, my thumb dusts her lower lip, and her mouth parts. I dip my finger in slightly, and her tongue touches the tip before she pulls away.
A groan escapes before I can stop it. My sweet solnyshko. “Love, tell me why you came back.”
“Because my friend, who was shot twice, came back. If you can be strong and brave, Roman, then so can I.” Her hand moves from mine, and she starts to dig around in her purse. “But I don’t want you to be as afraid as I am, so I bought you something.”
There’s nothing I can say in this moment. I’m utterly gutted and transfixed by her, by her words. By her genuine concern.
By her pronouncement. My friend.
“You bought something for me?” I finally manage as her hand reappears, fingers clutching a medium-sized envelope.
Worrying the side of her lip, she says, “Self-defense, gun safety, training, and permit classes—I can’t remember the exact name for it, but the gift certificate covers it all. They teach everything.”
“I can’t—”
“Please take it. We can take the classes together.”
It nearly kills me to hear that sort of invitation from her. Petrov’s revenge has marked her. It has affected Everly in a way that I would have never allowed, given the choice. Only that bloody bastard took it away from me.
“Or not,” she adds.
“I will accompany you, so that we can learn together.”
Beautiful eyes light up, but she’s still a bit wary. “You will?”
He will pay for that wariness, even without a contract. “I promise.” I draw an X over my heart, where it beats for her and only her, then I take the envelope and tuck it into the side pocket of my trousers.
I bring her hand to my lips, pressing upon it a kiss that I long to replicate in far more erotic areas. The side of her neck, the backs of her knees…her inner thighs as they part for me. As she digs her fingers into my shoulders and moans my name while I pleasure her.
I slash the image from my mind, willing my traitorous body to ignore the surge of lust that threatens to overwhelm and break down every last bit of iron will I’ve erected.
Of course, none of this can ever happen, no one can ever know the depths of feeling I have for her—physically or emotionally. Both are dangerous.
Regretfully, my heart feels as though it’s about to burst out of my chest. I pull away, breaking the sweetest of contacts I’ve had with another in a very, very long time.
She brushes my hair back from where it has fallen over my forehead. I want to lean into her touch, to let her linger longer. I can’t remember the last time I was touched like this. Maybe when I was a child, before my mother sent me to live with my grandfather.
“There. Now you look like the Roman I know,” she pronounces. “Seller of rare books and procurer of romance novels.”
You don’t know me at all, I think sadly. I bring death even while I right wrongs. “Thank you.” I rise to my full height and brush at the invisible lint on the cuffs of my sleeves. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with my friend.”
“Oh,” she says, as if remembering we aren’t the only two people in my shop. Her earlier terror is gone, but that doesn’t mean I’ll go easier on Petrov when I find him. Quite the opposite actually. “You go on; I need to leave in a few minutes anyway. I’ll see you Friday night for our first class. It’s at seven, so we can eat before we go or after. Or…you don’t have to eat with me at all.”
Like a date? And what happened to having lunch with her? Stupid man—you can’t have lunch with her. You can’t have anything with her at all, beyond these walls. Meeting with her out in the open, in the park was fucking madness. “What if we pick the same restaurant? Shall we sit at separate tables and pretend not to know one another?”
She tilts her head to one side again. Adorably, I might add. “Are you flirting with me, Roman?”
I catch sight of my customer leaning against the counter, his inquisitive eyes missing nothing. He’s amused by us, I realize.
Suddenly, I can’t respond in kind to her. It feels wrong. My instincts are warning me to stop this flirtation.
I shrug. “I’m not sure of my dinner plans yet. I’ll meet you at class, yes?”
“Sure. Whatever. See you at class,” she answers with a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Don’t worry about lunch this week or whenever. I, ah, forgot I have plans with my out-of-town guest.” A lie. The air vibrates with it. I’ve just hurt her. Again. There’s no way she’ll push for more.
“Brilliant.” I focus my attention on the man at the counter, watching Everly gather her things in my peripheral vision. She looks defeated.
She turns suddenly, her mouth opening like she has more to say, and my body tenses. Then she gives herself a little shake, and her mouth snaps shut. She hitches the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder, scooping the box of books into her arms before barreling toward the front of the store.
The door opens with a bang, from her hip hitting against it. The cat I found in the alleyway slips out with her, flicking its tail proudly. I stand there, watching as both of them disappear from view.