by Zoe Hill
That dark musing almost makes me smile.
Trust my mind to find the words needed to salve my soul with absolution for my perceived sins minutes before I die. It’s apt, really. My inability to speak up has plagued me my entire life. Of course, I’m going to discover my philosophical side when I don’t need it anymore.
In my head, I picture what my tombstone would say if it told the real truth.
Here lies, Poppy Eloise Montgomery Tennyson.
Meek and mute when it mattered most.
Voiceless in life. Verbose in death.
Rejected by the only man to make her feel normal then killed by the man who couldn’t accept her strange ways.
Ironic or poetic… take your pick.
“Who is he? I’ll kill him,” Seb continues scolding me even though it’s impossible for me to answer his questions. When I don’t reply, he uses his grip on my neck to lift me a few inches from the floor then bangs me back down. “Tell me.”
Too many thoughts to decipher flood my head. I don’t want to die, yet I kinda do. It makes sense… after all, who lives a long life with luck like mine? The fatalistic streak in me tells me to submit to Seb’s murderous intent until a different voice invades my head. Sounding suspiciously like Spenser, it shouts at me to fight.
“Oh, for fuck sake,” I mutter when Seb flexes his fingers, and the pressure on my vocal cords reduces for a moment. “I don’t wanna fight.”
Surging upright from beneath his heavy body, I make one last-ditch attempt to stay alive. Subdued by Seb when he looms over me, I fight to breathe through my nose. His weight restricts my lungs, and his chokehold on my throat makes it impossible to scream for help.
“Bella,” I croak from between dry lips. My best friend is my only chance of help. A backhand from the man I once trusted with my life is the only response I receive. Trying again, I plead, “Come back.”
Bearing down on me, Seb’s face is a black cloud of rage. Terror ripples through me, then I begin to embrace death once again. Part of me always thought that I’d die young anyway. I sneer at my ex-fiancé as I try to make him understand that he’s ultimately doing me a favor.
Maybe in heaven, I’ll find a man who makes me feel like Spenser does?
Seb jerks, first his left shoulder then his right. A puzzled look invades his mean eyes. Blood bubbles from his mouth, and he slumps down over me a heartbeat later. His grip on my neck slackens, but it doesn’t help me breathe because I’m being squashed beneath a two-hundred-and-fifty pound man. I writhe beneath Seb. I can’t move him. Panic closes my throat, and I feel the last of my energy leave me at the same moment that I realize that I don’t really want to die.
“Spenser,” I murmur. It’s a prayer of sorts—a final attempt at manifesting what I want to meet me on the other side. “Can’t breathe.”
“Shit. Shit,” a familiar voice enters my ears. Now that I know my prayer is being answered, I allow my eyelids to flutter shut. “Heavy ass, motherfucker.”
My eyes fly open when Seb is heaved off me and Spenser comes into view. Eyebrows drawn together, he breathes hard as he pats my body over and inspects the damage that’s been done to my face. I want to ask him why he’s here, except I can’t form words through my gasping. A strong arm hooks beneath my knees and another one comes around my back as he scoops me from the ground like I’m a featherweight.
Touching his unshaven chin to check that he’s real, I try to smile when I find that he’s a solid man and not an apparition. Instead, I end up grimacing when my swollen lips refuse to move properly.
“Are you hurt?” Shaking my head, I attempt to talk. Spenser presses his lips against my cheek, then he whispers, “Don’t speak, Zricha. Your throat sounds raw.”
My aching body twangs when he jostles me in his arms so we can fit through my bedroom doorway. Another man, the spitting image of Spenser, is waiting in my living room, pacing with his hands jammed in his dark hair. They exchange a nod, then we’re moving again. I spy a gun in a shoulder holster when the other man’s jacket blows open from the speed of our departure, and it calms my residual fear that Seb might have Razor and Slash stationed outside my apartment. If he wasn’t armed, we’d be weaponless because my pistol remains uselessly tucked in my drawer.
When we leave, and there’s no one waiting to stop us, I press my lips together to steel myself as the reality of my situation becomes clearer.
Chances are Seb has killed the two enforcers my mother sent to New York with us.
Peering up at the ceiling, I thank God that Bella managed to escape his wrath.
“Tell Dad to send a clean-up crew,” Spenser orders.
The mannerisms of Spenser and the other man are identical, as is their gait.
“Already organized,” the man I’m assuming is Spenser’s brother replies. Moving to touch Spenser, he pauses with his hand hovering inches above his brother’s shoulder. “You should know by now that I’m always two steps ahead of you.”
“That’s absolute bullshit,” Spenser quips, looking down at me. “He’s the slow twin.”
Spenser’s twin smiles at me as we enter the elevator before he hits the button for the parking garage.
In silence, we travel down. I gawk at them, searching their faces for disparities, and finding them all but identical. Apart from the obvious height difference, they are the same, yet I can tell them apart with ease.
It’s the air around them that separates them.
Spenser views the world with a resigned cynicism while his twin seems ready to change the universe to meet his expectations.
I know which perspective mirrors mine best.
The two men incline their head toward as we exit into the concrete garage under my apartment building. They split up, walking silently in opposite directions. Spenser carries me to a black Bentley while the other man jogs over to a white Mercedes. After I’m placed on the back seat of Spenser’s vehicle, he rummages through an overnight bag and extricates a black T-shirt. His touch is gentle as he removes my torn shirt and maneuvers the T-shirt over my head. Once I’m covered, he snaps the seatbelt around me, slams the door shut, and hurries into the driver’s seat.
While I’m alone, I test my voice, but nothing comes out. My throat feels like a throbbing mess and my entire body is quickly becoming overcome with trembling. My chest burns from my fight for oxygen and I feel a bruise forming on my shoulder. In spite of my injuries, I have questions that need answers, so I keep trying to form words. We peel out into the sunlight and down the street before I manage to work enough saliva into my mouth to speak.
“How do you know where I live?” I croak. Coughing, I groan when the action makes every inch of my body pulse with pain. “How did you know that I needed help? Who was—”
A trilling sound cuts me off. Spenser slaps at the steering wheel, then barks, “Answer call.”
“Trigger,” a male voice fills the car. “Do you have her?”
Tossing a worried look over his shoulder, a strange look settles over Spenser’s angular facial features before he replies, “Yes. She’s battered but alive.”
The rest of their conversation turns into an angry hum in my ears as the name the caller addressed Spenser by sinks into my addled brain. The IA Detective questioned me about someone named Trigger. My Lieutenant warned me about Trigger. Even Chelsea goddamn Vertes mentioned Trigger. When the hum morphs into a roar, I slump back against the seat. The truth floods my ears. It’s a rumble filled with lies and deception, a damning indictment of my naivety, and a buzz of speculation that should make me afraid but doesn’t.
I’m too battered to care.
Spenser is Trigger.
If he’s as dangerous as I was told, I’ve been rescued from certain death at the hands of the man sent by my family to protect me by the devasting and apparently deadly man I was warned by everyone to stay away from.
In other words, I’ve leaped out of the frying pan and into the fucking inferno.
NINETEEN
“Some things are destined to be—it just takes us a couple of tries to get there.” ~J.R. Ward~
SPENSER
I drive like a man possessed until we’re on the interstate that leads back to New Haven. Every few seconds, I glance into the rear mirror to check on Poppy. She’s slumped against the seat with her eyes shut. Her chest is hardly moving, and she makes a muted squeak every time the Bentley bounces.
When her little peeps of pain stop, I drive for another ten or so miles before the need to check her gets the better of me, and I pull off onto the edge of the interstate. Horns blast as driver’s show their annoyance with my kamikaze driving maneuver. I ignore the vocal indignation over my sudden stop and crawl over the middle console to exit the Bentley through the passenger door. Climbing into the backseat with Poppy, I press two fingers against her pulse. When I feel the steady throbbing of her heartbeat beneath my fingers, I breathe out a sigh.
She’s going to be okay.
“Spenser,” Poppy’s voice is raspy. “What are you doing?”
“Checking you over.” Slapping my hand away, she struggles to sit up. I ignore her flailing hands to gently ease her upright. Poppy glares at me, clutching her shoulder when I move her forward until her legs are dangling outside the vehicle. I move her limbs with doctor-like precision. Her sharp inhales alert me that each motion hurts. “How’s your head?”
One chocolate-brown eye opens, her other is swollen shut. “Hurts.”
So far, her damage seems superficial. I brush the back of my fingertips over the bruise that’s darkening on her cheek. “You need ice. Unfortunately, I have none, and I’m not keen on stopping again until we’re somewhere safe.”
My fingers burn with rejection when Poppy jerks away from my caress. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No,” I reply immediately. A cloud of disbelief builds between us when she searches my face for something and finds me lacking. Taking her hands in mine, I squeeze as tight as I dare. “I know I hurt you. I know I lied. Believe me, please, when I tell you that I’m going to keep you safe from now on.”
“Why?”
The answer to Poppy’s question is too convoluted to answer on the side of the road. Instead, I open the passenger door, then pick her up and place her on the seat in the front. Our eyes meet again, and I try to infuse my gaze with as much honesty as I can manage. I give up when Poppy closes her good eye and leans back against the leather headrest. Shutting her door, I hurry back into the driver’s seat while there’s a break in the traffic and pull back out onto the road to New Haven.
A few minutes later, I chance a glance at Poppy. She turns away from me to stare out the window. I try my hardest to remain calm into the face of her rejection because there’s too much that she doesn’t know. Recognizing the need to give her time doesn’t stop an angry groan from rumbling through my chest when Poppy adjusts my T-shirt and reveals her badly bruised shoulder.
I want to drive back to her apartment and finish the job.
Unfortunately, I’ve angered Roman enough today without adding an unsanctioned killing to my list of crimes against the Coalition.
Shifting again in her seat, Poppy huffs and groans as she pulls the hem of the T-shirt up and prods at her ribs. Despite her injuries, I find myself unable to keep my eyes from her exposed skin. Everything about her affects me. The softness of her curves. The vanilla lotion that adds a sweet element to her perfume. The way I can cause goosebumps to rise with the slightest graze of my fingertips over her skin. It’s imprinted in my mind. And now that I know the Tennyson’s and their MC are not engaged in sex trafficking, I can’t wait to taste her again.
Guilt-free this time.
“Why did you save me from Seb?”
Poppy’s question hangs in the air while I try to formulate my thoughts. In the end, I go with the truth. “Because I wanted to.”
Without turning her head, she snaps, “Wanted to what?”
“Protect you,” I reply. “I made you leave this morning because I didn’t want who I am to hurt you. I came to your apartment when I found out that you were in danger for the same reason.”
An inelegant snort is her sole response.
She doesn’t believe me.
It’s okay. I wouldn’t take my word for it either. Throwing her out this morning, no matter how noble I thought I was trying to be, only to swoop in this afternoon and carry her out of her home without permission. Battered by another man who, no doubt, asked her to trust him too. Her bloodied face and the bruises I can see peppering her body are a testament to how hard she fought him. But, it’s her raspy breathing and the horrible marks around her neck that map out the final blow she was dealt.
Sebastian Grant was going to kill her.
That’s a fact.
I’m just grateful that I managed to get there before it was too late.
Stirling and the Zidane brothers saved my ass.
It’s not a debt that I’ll take lightly, and knowing Anderson Zidane as well as I do, I’m aware that his interference will come at a cost. That’s what his call as I left Poppy’s apartment was about… a promise that he’ll be expecting payment soon.
Whatever the price, I’m willing to pay it to keep the woman sitting next to me alive.
After glancing at Poppy and seeing that she’s fallen asleep, I rest my head against the headrest and concentrate on making the journey to New Haven in once piece. As the miles fly past, the information that Eitan provided during my manic drive to Poppy’s apartment pushes back into my head.
The things that we missed mock me. The answers were staring us right in the face the entire time.
Looking at Harrison should have been my first move once information about Oliver and Seb turned out impossible to find. As usual, he was pulling the strings in my life from directly beneath my nose. All roads have always led back to him, yet I remain steadfast in refusal to examine his existence beyond a general acceptance that he still lives.
He’s my blind spot.
If I had any belief in my ability to seize the revenge I deserved, I would’ve gone rogue at the first opportunity and taken out my uncle without the Coalition’s permission. There’s a reason I didn’t. Turning my head to quickly run my gaze over Poppy, I allow myself to the count of twelve to find the guts to admit to myself that she’s the reason I never found the courage to end my life by taking Harrison’s.
I never really wanted to die.
What I was searching for was a reason to live.
In Poppy, I’ve found it.
My fingers itch with the need to touch her. Instead of giving in, I redirect my attention to the road and stare out the windshield. The craving to reach for Poppy grows into an ache. Flexing my fingers above the steering wheel to subdue the urge, I draw in a deep breath and hold it in my lungs to distract my waning willpower from her proximity. The look she gave me when I closed her door scalded me with contempt. She needs space, and I need time to rectify the mistakes I’ve made since the day we met if I’m ever going to be worthy of her.
“How did you know Seb was going to kill me?”
The emptiness in her voice when she speaks is my undoing. With a mind of its own, my hand reaches across the vehicle and snags Poppy’s hand from her lap. She stiffens, and I hold my breath, guarding my heart against another rejection. Instead of slapping at me, I feel her body expand as she draws in a ragged breath a second before she nudges my fingers wider and threads her dainty digits with mine.
Squeezing lightly, she lowers our joined hands to her lap.
“Why did the man call you Trigger,” Poppy asks. Turning away from me, she looks out the passenger window. “If you want me to trust you, I need answers. I need the truth. All of it.”
It’s an indictment of my lack of luck that the one thing she requests is the only thing I can’t give her. The truth could kill her. At best, it will hurt her in a way from which she’ll never recover. All my life, I’ve been aware of the harm the Coalition does. Its reach is insidious. As a gl
obal alliance of equally greedy and corrupt men, escaping their clutches once they have their hooks in you is next to impossible. After rescuing her from death today, I refuse to be responsible for bringing any more risk down on her head. Giving Poppy complete honesty would be a mistake. But, giving her the cliff notes version might be the solution I need.
“Trigger is my criminal name. I do bad things for bad men, and having an underground name helps them find me when they need me.” As explanations go, mine is not the most coherent. “I’m hoping that as a Detective, you can fill in some of the blanks yourself…”
“I can,” she retorts. Lifting her chin higher, she keeps her gaze directed out of her window. “Did Seb work for you? Is that how you knew he was going to kill me?”
“No.” I glare out of the windshield as I work out how to formulate my next answer. “I was sent to kill you. That’s why I was at the bar in New Haven.”
“I knew it.”
Rolling my eyes, I refrain from commenting that she didn’t have a clue. It’s pertinent to pick my battles if I want her to trust me. “As I learned more about your family—who I was sent to kill as well—I realized that you were all innocent of the crimes you’d been accused of, and I changed my mind. That’s why I made you leave my suite this morning. I needed space to work out how I could decline the job without another hitman being sent after you.”
“Did you kill my brother?” She turns to me as she asks this question.
“No. I haven’t killed anyone you love.” As the pledge leaves my lips, I have to believe that I’m telling the truth. The names of my victims are too extensive to recall, even for an eidetic memory like mine. “Unfortunately, my boss received a better offer to execute the contract he placed on your family and the MC and I was removed from the job. Once I was told that you were being targeted by someone else, my hand was forced, and I had to choose.”
“What did you have to choose?” Poppy squeezes my hand, and I make myself meet her eyes.