by James, Tate
Also, by some unspoken agreement, Mace and Hawke have backed off of me. Sexually, I mean. I haven't had anything even close to sex in the past three weeks, so even though he's injured, and I'm trying my best not to let my lustful tendencies get a hold of me ... I'm also checking Colt's bare chest out like a horny teenager. Why, exactly, he's not wearing a shirt is beyond me, but I'm not about to complain.
"He spilled hot coffee all over himself, like some sort of helpless infant," Weston says, trying to be mocking but failing miserably. He can play the manly man game all he wants, but it's pretty damn clear that he loves his friend—in a platonic sort of way anyhow.
"Infants don't fucking drink coffee, you dumb shit," Colt shoots back, his floppy, sandy hair cut short in a military style. He keeps reaching up to touch it, and cringing, like he misses his old 'do.
When his spring green eyes fall on mine, a jolt of excitement goes through me, making my fingertips and toes tingle. When he gives me a shit-eating grin, more than just my extremities tingle. A rush of hot heat takes over my core, and I feel myself wetting my lower lip with my tongue.
"Oh for fuck's sake, you two can quit eye fucking each other any minute now," Weston says, but he seems pretty excited to see me, too. I haven't seen him since we left New York, and damn, he’s a sight for sore eyes. Is it my imagination or have Colt and Weston gotten hotter?
They contrast each other beautifully. Colt with his newly cropped blond hair and Nordic complexion—several shades lighter than I'm used to seeing, thanks to his six week coma—versus Weston's natural tan, jade eyes and jet black hair spliced with peacock blue. It was green last time I'd seen him, but he makes any color look hot.
As I stare, Weston pulls one of his lip rings into his mouth, toying with it in a way that sends all kinds of dirty ideas floating through my head.
"Natalia," Weston murmurs, a sly grin pulling up those full lips I'm so fixated on.
"Hmm?" I reply, not really paying attention. Not when my mind is replaying the memory of the two of them, naked and sweaty, one in front and one behind as they ...
"You're drooling," Weston says, his grin widening.
My gaze shoots back to his eyes and I snap my mouth shut. How it had fallen open, I've no idea. "No, I'm not," I argue, but casually wipe a hand over my chin. Just in case.
"Sure, babe," Colt answers with a smirk, "just like I wasn't picturing you naked." His obvious wink tells me that's exactly what he was doing, and I like it. "I mean, damn. You look ..." he breaks off with a pained groan and I gasp, all thoughts of double vaginal penetration gone from my mind as I struggle to keep my cool.
I won’t let them know that I care. Because if I do, then they’ll have something to hold over me, and I’m not sure I want to give them that power. Yet. Or ever.
Considering Colt was checking me out before he started moaning, I have to wonder if his lust for me has broken him before he even steps foot inside the crumbling old hotel Hawke is calling a ‘safe house’.
"Hey, buddy." Weston's voice shakes as he crouches down. "You okay?"
Colt groans again, sending another lightning bolt of fear zapping through me. "No," he replies, still sounding pained as he leans forward, shifting in his wheelchair. "Ah, fuck, I think I'm dying. These fucking emo jeans are too tight on my massive hard on, bro."
He looks up at his best friend with a smug as shit grin and Weston glowers back. It takes me a hot second for the panic to ease out of my body, realizing he's joking. God, I’ve missed these two. They’re the only ones in this entire group with any sense of humor whatsoever. It’s much needed, after Hawke’s scowling and Mace’s silent treatment. Some part of me believes that Colt and West might actually like me, you know, as more than a depraved sexual conquest.
"Dick," Weston growls, playfully smacking Colt on the muscular shoulder.
"Hey, hey, woah, don't hit the invalid," Colt protests, then waggles his brows at me. "But you're welcome to hit on the invalid, babe. Seriously, though, you look fucking great. Has someone been feeding you?"
A small sound of indignation slips from my mouth as Weston starts wheeling Colt up the path toward the safe house. "Did you just call me fat?" I quip, but I’m not actually all that pissed off. How could I be, now that we’re all back together again. Colt is like sunshine, and Weston is the pair of shades you put on to look cool beneath all that heat.
Colt turns his head to squint at me when I fall behind. "You know I didn't. If you want compliments, babe, just say so. I've had three whole weeks to dream about getting you naked again, so I've got pick up lines for days."
I can't fight the smile pulling at my lips when his green eyes sparkle with mischief and his tongue drags a slow path over his lower lip. He’s got confidence for days, doesn’t he? And he’s so damn hot, I’m sure he’s never had trouble getting girls into bed. That’s why he’s still nice, I bet, because he’s never had to work his ass off for anything.
"Well, thanks," I murmur. "Hawke and Mace have been training me."
Weston stops dead in the path and I bump into his back before recovering my balance. His hard, wide, muscular back, covered in a musky-smelling t-shirt that I’d seriously like to snag and hide under my pillow … Like that’s not creepy at all.
"They've what?" he demands, glaring at me like I just said they've been cooking crystal meth and selling it to school kids. Actually, that sounds like something Arsen would do. Crazy fuck. Crazy fuck that I kind of miss ... deep down.
I give Weston a small frown, flicking my gaze over to Colt who’s still grinning. "Uh ... they've been training me?" I phrase it as a question, but maybe I shouldn’t have because I’m pretty sure I know what he’s talking about. Sex. It’s always about sex with us, me and the guys. There’s a distinct possibility that we’re all sex addicts. But I can only deal with one vice at a time here. If I try to tackle too many issues at once, I’ll break. I’m not that strong. Not yet. "You know, to qualify for active duty with the team? So we can go back and kill my dad?" I wrinkle my nose, seeing West’s anger dissipate and relief wash over his face; Colt doesn’t seem bothered much either way. "What the hell did you think I meant?"
"Nothing," Weston replies, shaking his head and continuing to push Colt up the path in his wheelchair. Any further questions I have are interrupted by the obstacle of stairs in front of us. "Sorry, buddy, I'm going to have to carry you. This shit shack isn't wheelchair compliant."
"Fuck. That." Colt glares daggers at his best friend. "You try to pick me up like a girl and I'll nut punch you so hard you'll get pubes stuck in your teeth."
I smother a laugh as Weston rolls his eyes and backs away, letting Colt stand from his wheelchair. “Yeah, fine, whatever, it’s your funeral. If you want to macho-man yourself into an early grave, that’s your prerogative.”
Colt smirks, and then takes a moment to stretch, lifting his strong arms over his head and wincing slightly when the muscles in his freshly scarred chest shift.
"Are you okay?" I ask softly, not wanting to baby him like Weston’s doing, but genuinely concerned for his well being. That, and it gives me something to focus on other than his obvious hard on. And I'd thought he was joking. I’m also really glad he wasn’t.
Considering Hawke’s been avoiding me like the plague (pretty sure he hates me), and Mace seems like he’s fighting his desire to be with me, I could use some, uh, companionship. Sex, yes. But also friendship. It’s a little lonelier out here than I thought. Back home, I was always surrounded by people. People of little value who’d just as likely stab me in the back as offer any kind words, but still.
Colt's green eyes rest on me as he lowers his arms, a lazy smile curling his lips. "Better than okay, beautiful girl. I'm alive." My heart skips a few beats, and my throat closes up, but I just flip my hair and pretend I don’t give a shit. Because that’s my M.O. I don’t get girlish flutters around people like Colt. That’s … almost normal people behavior, and I’m far from normal.
"Alive, maybe, but late," H
awke says, his deep voice reverberating through my bones. I glance over my shoulder and catch the sharp flash of his gray eyes as he keeps his attention focused on Colt, not even bothering to acknowledge that I'm standing beside him.
Since the night of the shoot-out, he hasn't touched me. Not once. Not even when we bump into each other in the dark kitchen, and my breath catches in my throat, my nipples harden, my pulse races ...
I feel a little crazy even thinking it, but I truly believe he’s been avoiding me. "We have a debrief in fifteen minutes in the kitchen. Don't bother going upstairs just yet."
And just like that, he spins away and takes off, weapons hanging off every inch of his body, like some sort of asshole porcupine. Just looking at him fills me with a righteous sort of fury, like I’d just as soon kill him as fuck him. After being numb for so many years, I’m struggling to untangle all of these new emotions. It’s like parts of me that I thought were long-dead are just now coming back to life.
"Did you just mouth asshole porcupine?" Colt asks, looking confused but cute as hell. I force a smile and beam over at him, feeling this strange hollowness inside my chest.
Not for the first time since I got here, I wonder what the fuck I'm doing.
How did I go from caged princess to weak sidekick? At least before, with all the sex, I felt like I had some purpose. I mean, it's sad, but true. Sex, I can do. I've had plenty of it. And, if I do say so myself, I'm pretty damn good at it, too.
But now ... when my physical prowess is being measured up against men who've been training their whole lives, who are twice my size, hard as rocks, brutal as hell ...
I feel inadequate, and I don't like it.
My hands clench into fists at my sides, and I exhale sharply.
"You alright there, babe?" Colt asks again, and I turn slowly to face both him and Weston with a smile. These jovial assholes should be able to cheer me up, right?
Because even Mace …
“I’m fine,” I say, and then I let Colt wrap an arm around my waist as we make our way into the kitchen. Speaking of the devil … Mace storms through the room in what's clearly a cold rage, the worst kind of all where the fire's already gone out, but the ash is like a stinging acid that blinds. No thank you. I let him go by without a word, but at least his eyes flick briefly to mine before he turns away.
As soon as he exits the room, I realize what's caused his anger.
Arsen.
My throat constricts as he moves into the entryway, his bright green headphones around his neck, his pale blue eyes arcing over to find my face. He, at least, doesn't shy away from me the way Mace has been doing. Touching me softly, and then jerking away like he's suddenly thought so much better of it.
And I want Mace to touch me. I want it so desperately that it makes me hurt in ways I never expected these boys could make me hurt—on the inside.
Then again, Arsen isn't looking at me like a sane man looks at a woman.
He stares at me like that cougar I ran into last week, when I snuck outside for a cigarette, my hands shaking as I tried to tell myself that joining some mercenary group to kill my father wasn't the weirdest direction my life could've ever taken. The damn cat crept down from the hill behind the house, crouching in the foliage, and only the reflection of the porch light being flicked on reflected back in its eyes.
If Hawke hadn't turned that light on and come barreling out with guns a’blazing ... But the only response or show of concern I'd gotten from him once he'd scared the cat away was to scowl at me and tell me to watch my back. "If you can't keep yourself safe from a goddamn cat, how do you expect to survive this job at all?"
Arsen licks his lower lip, his white-blond hair cut short and streaked with red, the color of blood. He tilts his head to one side to study me, and I swear, his eyes reflect back the light.
"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite little Russian princess. How are we today, Miss Petrova?" He uses my last name like an insult, slicking it against his tongue like a knife.
"No greeting for me, dickhead?" Colt inserts as Weston's eyes flick between me and Arsen. Whatever it is that he sees, he doesn't like. Maybe it's the way Arsen studies me from head to toe with this dark gleam in his eye, this predatory hunt that will inevitably lead to my own destruction.
"He doesn't give a crap about you or anyone else," Weston says, his voice darkening. I'm pretty sure his words are meant for me as well as Colt, but maybe what he's not getting is that I don't entirely care. Something about Arsen calls to something dark in me, something that I can't explain. Maybe he was born with his, or maybe it was beaten into him the way my black, aching spirit was beaten into me? Through years of pain, neglect, through sights that can never be forgotten, or anguish that bleeds straight from the heart and poisons the blood?
"You're right," Arsen says, wearing jeans and a black wifebeater that shows off the copious amount of tattoos covering his muscular arms. "I don't give a fuck about anyone at all, not even myself. When has that ever mattered?"
He gives me another look and moves ahead, pounding up the stairs and then glancing back in a very clear invitation.
"We have a debrief in fifteen minutes," Weston calls after him, gritting his teeth and looking at me like he really, really doesn't want me to go up there. I stare right back at him, and I know he's right, that I probably shouldn't ... but also, that I'm going to do it anyway.
"Ten now!" Hawke calls out from the direction of the living room, and I take off, listening to both Colt and Weston curse from the bottom of the stairs. But I can't help it. I've always been a glutton for punishment.
Arsen isn't hard to find, standing in the room farthest from the staircase, one boot up on the peeling paint of the windowsill, the other scanning the darkness for ... something. Well, if he's looking for people out there to taunt, he's going to be sorely disappointed. There are no people within miles of this place. Miles, and miles, and miles ...
I swallow hard and enter the room, one hand resting on the fading wallpaper, the other unconsciously clenched into a fist by my side.
"What have you been up to the past six weeks?" I ask, dreading the answer, unsure of why I even asked.
"Fucking, snorting coke, and drinking myself into a stupor. You?" he asks, turning over one shoulder to look at me. "Actually, wait, don't answer that, I don't care." Arsen turns back around, and with two long strides, he's up close and personal with my face, shoving my shoulder back into the wall with a firm hand.
Some strange part of me twists into a knot of frustration.
Did he just say fucking? I wonder, realizing with a sudden start that the feeling I'm so confused about is actually ... jealousy. I mean, it's ridiculous, isn't it, considering the circumstances. Here I am, not only a virtual stranger, but also the daughter of Arsen's worst enemy, screwing not only him and his colleagues, but ...
He's a fucking sociopath.
He doesn't care about me. Of course he'd go out and screw whatever girls he could get a hold of.
"Something wrong, princess?" he asks, laughing in my face, the sound cruel and dark and oh so wrong. My nipples perk up at the sound, and molten heat floods my core. Yep, that's me, Natalia Petrova, masochist extraordinaire. I must love pain, to seek it out so damn much.
If I were a smart girl, I'd grit my teeth, avoid making any connections with the guys (sexual or otherwise), and save the money I’ll be earning working for Blackbirch. I could take off, start over. I know I'm a bit narcissistic, but I'm pretty enough. Maybe I could make a name for myself in modeling or acting? I can't sing for shit ...
But no, here I am, panting because some glorious psycho has just pushed me into a wall, his right hand working its way under the waistband of my ugly green cargo pants. I haven't worn a skirt or a dress in weeks; I miss them.
Arsen's fingers brush the damp heat of my panties, and I gasp, my lips parting to make room for his tongue when he fits his mouth against mine. The way he kisses though, it's not like anyone I've ever been with before, this viol
ent, almost desperate sort of taking. Arsen De Lange doesn't give with his kisses, not the way many men do, no. He just siphons the life out of me, and for some inexplicable reason, I seem more than happy to give it.
"Look at you," he taunts, slipping my panties aside and slicking a single finger along my tender folds. "Dripping for a man who'd just as soon see you dead as fuck you. Does that get you off?"
"So what if it does?" I challenge, lifting my chin, and then choking on my own defiance as Arsen slips two fingers in me without preamble. He doesn't bother with foreplay or niceties. Why should he? Doesn't do anything for him, and he's truly a selfish, selfish creature.
He laughs at me again, thrusting deep enough to coat his knuckles in my desire, and then pulls away, yanking me by the wrist and practically throwing me into the glass of the window.
My palms hit the cool glass first, and my eyes widen as a few, distinct cracks appear. These are old windows, original to the hotel which just so happens to have been built in 1916. These things are over a hundred years old, wavy and ancient, liable to break at the slightest provocation.
Arsen shoves my pants down my hips, his scorching body heat seeping into me, making me shiver. It's a nice contrast to the cool glass beneath my fingertips.
But also ...
"It might break," I choke out, my voice barely above a whisper. Arsen's response is to laugh, the sound of his zipper giving me chills.
"Then you better make sure I get off quick, huh?" he asks, and then he's shoving himself into me. Deep. Hard. Rough. I'm experienced enough, but it's been a few weeks ... It almost hurts, but at the same time, just like that glass beneath my fingertips, I'm slowly cracking into pieces.
It hurts, but it feels good, too.
A moan escapes me as I curl my fingertips in pleasure, and notice that a few extra cracks have appeared. The window isn't strong enough to brace me; it might very well break and send me flying two stories down.
Would Arsen care? Would he try to catch me?
The answer to both of those questions is a resounding I don't know, so I close my eyes, heat searing through me with each violent thrust. He pushes himself so deep that I can feel him everywhere, invading me: body, mind, spirit.