“Thank you,” I breathe, letting the darkness take me once more. Even if I never wake up again, this heaven I’m experiencing right now is worth it.
*
The world is a great, white light as I open my eyes. Too bright.
I screw my eyes shut once more, listening. It seems safe, just the hum and beep of machines. The slight echo of footsteps and voices in the hallway.
Shifting my head left, then right, I take stock of my body. Though I’m sore as hell, I can still move everything. I open my eyes and take in my surroundings, startled to find Everly curled up in a chair beside my hospital bed.
She’s sleeping, still wearing the same green dress. Only the hem is about a foot shorter and there are purple shadows under her eyes. How long has she been here? How long have I been here?
Someone walks into the room, and I turn my head to find a nurse approaching the side of my bed. “Welcome back, Mr. Smith.”
I find my voice. My throat is scratchy, and it burns. “How long was I out?”
“Two days.” She places a couple of fingers on my wrist and keeps an eye on her watch. “It was touch and go for a while, but that angel sleeping beside you wouldn’t give up. I’ve never seen someone pray so fiercely for another human being. She even donated blood—you’re a lucky man to have a fiancée like her. And she must be a lucky woman to have you, because ain’t no man worth getting that worked up over, unless he’s a good one.”
I glance at Everly just in time to see her cheeks turn a rosy pink. So the sleeping angel has a bit of the devil in her. Still, it’s…nice to wake up to a familiar face.
The last time I was put in the hospital, no one came to see me. No one came to check on me, to see if I was alive, or could walk, or eat, or fucking talk. I’d lay in a stark hospital room for days, it seemed, until they discharged me. Then I collected my things and walked out, a stranger in a strange land once more.
“I am very lucky,” I say softly.
Once the nurse finishes checking my vitals and leaves, I count to twenty before calling Everly’s bluff.
“Love, I know you’re awake. No one blushes in their sleep.”
Her eyes pop open, and a chagrined look graces her face. “I woke up when the nurse came in, but when she said all that…there was no way I could face you.”
I sit up in bed, pressing the remote to allow the mattress to help me. “Sometimes falsehoods must be told in order to help others.”
“You would have gotten medical care whether I lied or not,” she admits, turning her pretty face away from me. “But I was afraid to let you out of my sight. I even rode in the ambulance with you.”
She had ridden in the ambulance? The vague memory of a woman weeping softly and holding my hand stirs in my mind, but I’m not sure if it’s my mother or Everly. My mother wept a great many nights after my father left her for the family he always wanted.
I flex all ten fingers, the black tattoos on my hands rippling with the movement.
“Do those have a meaning?” she asks, sitting up and adjusting her dress.
“I liked the look of them.”
Her lips twist a little, as if she doesn’t quite believe me. “That’s too bad. I was hoping for something with a story behind it.”
My story would make you wish you never met me. “You read too many romance novels,” I grumble, looking around for the container of ice or water that always seems to be on hand in hospitals. I reach for the Styrofoam container, but Everly jumps up, gently pushing my arm away.
“Let me help you,” she says. She fills up a cup with water and sticks a straw in before coming back to me. “Here, drink this.”
I’m perfectly able to hold the cup with my uninjured arm and hand, but a selfish part of me wants to be fussed over. Especially by her. I allow her to hold the cup to my mouth, to take the straw between her fingers and gently push it between my parted lips.
The tips of her fingers touch my mouth, and a shudder rocks my body. A sharp inhalation of breath lets me know I’m not the only one affected.
Lifting my eyes, I gaze up at her, sucking on the straw and letting the cool liquid ease the burning path that used to be my throat. A connection forms between us, and she leans closer, so close that I can smell the lingering shampoo and perfume she wears.
My body goes hard, and my dick joins in. The thin sheet tents. Her eyes widen, and the cup shakes. The straw slips from my mouth.
“More,” I demand, and her attention returns to my face. I wrap my hand around her wrist and bring the cup closer, parting my lips and waiting.
She doesn’t hesitate. Her fingers touch my mouth, the straw glides in, and I imagine she’s doing this to me. Her mouth on me, taking me inside…
“You can hold this; I need to go to the restroom to freshen up. I can’t possibly smell good,” she says, hurrying away.
A smile kicks up the corner of my mouth. I haven’t felt like this in years. Haven’t felt like a man instead of just a contract killer. Sure, I’ve been with women. Women wealthy, beautiful, and as deadly as I am with a gun. Innocents like Everly Andrews have no place in my life.
But the part of me she’s awakened doesn’t want to listen to that. That part of me wants her. Wants her smile, her laugh, her touch…her body. It wants to get to know her beyond my bookstore, to know what else she likes to drink besides hot cocoa. What else she likes to eat besides Granny-Smith-apple-flavored jelly beans.
“I feel a bit better now, but I really need a shower,” she announces, walking back into my room from the private bathroom. “Will you be okay if I go home to change?”
I won’t be okay, but it has nothing to do with my health or safety. It has everything to do with her.
“The nurses will keep me sorted.”
Everly stares at me for a moment. “I could go to your place and bring back whatever you need.”
The only thing I need is standing by my hospital bed. “That’s not necessary. But I really appreciate the offer,” I add before she mistakes my refusal as a rejection.
“One last question before I go,” she says, her smile turning shy.
“Ask away,” I softly command.
“Do you think you can call me Everly now? I mean, I did rescue you from the jaws of death.” She bites her lip, like she’s trying not to giggle.
For the first time in years, I throw my head back and laugh, uncaring of how much it hurts to do so. “God, yes. I’ll call you whatever you want, love.”
A uniformed officer walks into the room, and my laughter fades. This is the moment I’ve been dreading. “Mr. Smith, I’m Officer Jones, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Everly’s gaze bounces to the officer. “Do you need me for anything?”
Officer Jones gives her an easy smile, one that speaks of familiarity. “You’ve been more than helpful, Ms. Andrews.”
“Great.” She walks to me, her eyes soft as her fingers brush my hair back. I can’t help but wonder what she told the police. Has she betrayed me without even knowing it? “I’ll see you later,” she says, and then leaves.
Officer Jones steps closer to my bed, pulling out a pad of paper and a pen. “Can you tell me what happened on the twenty-sixth?”
Prepared for this moment, I say, “A man walked in, clearly high, wanting money. He picked the wrong shop. I don’t deal with cash. Credit card purchases only.”
“That would explain the lack of a till,” the officer says as he takes notes.
I clear my throat. “When he realized I wasn’t lying, he got all pissed and fired a couple of shots, and then,” I close my eyes, as if the memory is painful to relive, “I passed out. I’m not quite sure how long I laid there before Ms. Andrews came inside, looking for her coat.”
“Detectives have already been down to your bookstore. We couldn’t find a weapon or any other bullet holes or casings.”
Inwardly relieved, I open my eyes. My secrets are safe. “Son of a bitch.”
“Is there anything else y
ou can tell me about the perp? Maybe describe him?”
“Brownish hair, late twenties to early thirties. Male. Um, eyes, uh…bloodshot. His skin was a sickly gray color.”
Officer Jones snorts. “You just described every junkie down on Hargett.”
Perfect. I make another noise of disgust. “I’m not that observant. Honestly, all I can remember is the barrel of his gun.”
The officer nods. “Thank you for your time. If we have more questions, we’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you.”
As soon as Officer Jones walks out of the room, I exhale. My cover hasn’t been blown, and I’m still alive.
But what will I do about Everly? I owe her my life now.
I owe her everything.
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 la
ughs. “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.
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