But he isn’t fooling me. I’m not so ignorant of the world around me that I can’t spot an assault rifle when I see one. Why is Thomas lying to me about this? What possible explanation could there be for all those horrible tools of death being in this house? No one needs a sporting collection that large. The butler is trying to cover for Lukas, clearly.
“Here we are,” Thomas says, opening the kitchen door. “Let me help you get everything you need, Miss Levy. What was it that you wanted?”
“Gertrude...Mrs. Roth...wanted a cup of tea,” I say haltingly. Thomas’s omission feels very much like a betrayal. Apparently, I’m not as welcome in this house as I thought. I watch Thomas take in my hurt expression and I see the guilt twisting his own heart.
“Miss Levy,” he says, dropping his voice, “Please don’t worry. Mr. Roth is a good man, the best man I know. He’s not a danger, he’s not bad. He’s simply...adapted to a certain way of life. Out of necessity. Surely you can understand that? Please don’t judge him too harshly. He’s terribly fond of you.”
All I can manage is a nod of my head, but Thomas accepts the gesture with a smile. I watch him bustle around the kitchen, preparing Gertrude’s tea. Just moments ago, this place felt like home. But now, I can’t help but wonder what it is I’ve gotten myself into—and how I’m going to escape before things get any more dire.
Chapter Fourteen
-Lukas-
The blood is already starting to seep through my makeshift tourniquet. I grit my teeth and press my foot down even harder on the pedal. No cop is going to be trolling these back roads at this hour. I’m free to speed as fast as I can, and good thing, because I need to staunch this bleeding right away. I should've known that those goddamn meth head lunatics would play dirty. This is why I hate taking out drug dealers—most of the time they’re high out of their fucking minds and unpredictable as hell.
At least I finished the job. That’s what matters.
I’m so fucking pissed that some backwater hick managed to slice my arm open. I was cocky going in there, distracted, even. I'm not in the habit of taking unnecessary risks—The whole lab could have gone up in flames with me inside it and then Mother’s premonition about outliving me would have surely come true. There’s no excuse for complacent sloppiness, especially not in this business, it'll get you killed.
This should have been an easy assignment. I had to go and get showy when I could've easily taken those assholes out with a few sniper rounds. But something is different, I can't quite place it but I feel more alive than I usually do, I'm on edge recently.
The front gates of my estate swing open as I approach. I tear up the lane, my tires spraying gravel every which way. Everyone should be asleep inside, and all the better. I wouldn’t want Mother to get all preachy about the dangers of my profession. Every time something goes the slightest bit awry on the job, she hops on her soap box. She was exactly the same way with Father...though in his case, it turned out that she was right to worry.
Killing is sort of the family business. My father, Grayson Roth, was a respected operative within the CIA. His sharpshooting, hand-to-hand combat, and espionage skills were legendary among the ranks. I never knew the details of his career until I entered the CIA myself and finally got security clearance.
Even then, the grittier aspects of his work were never made clear until after his death. Father died on the job, trying to take out a vile, supremely dangerous jihadist fuck terrorist who was planning an attack on the United States. And though my dad managed to prevent the attack, he lost his life in the process.
That’s the risk we take when we sign up.
Not anymore, though. I don’t serve a country or organization that doesn’t know how to take care of its own. I’m my own man, my own boss now. I choose which targets to go after, who deserves to live or die. I’m not bound by nationalistic bullshit or any false sense of security. That means I’m on my own, completely. And right at this moment, that means it’s on me to sew up my own goddamn arm.
I cut the engine and hop out of my SUV. The lights in the house are all extinguished, everyone’s sleeping soundly, I hope. I let myself in the front door noiselessly and book it toward the kitchen. I need to clean out this cut before anything else, God only knows what sort of bacteria was growing in that meth house.
My least favorite aspect of dealing with criminal lowlifes is the fact that every single one of them is physically disgusting in some way or other. Even the most polished mob boss or glitzy gang banger is nothing but an open, festering wound when you look close enough.
Flicking on the overhead lights, I cross to the sink and shrug out of my leather jacket. Good thing black leather doesn’t show blood stains.
Grimacing, I lean over the basin and untie the strip of fabric that’s been doing its best to staunch the flow of blood. The once-white rag is a deep, ominous crimson, and when I peel it away from my arm, a thick rush of blood splashes against the metal sink. I smile to myself as I think how Mother would throw a fit if she saw me bleeding into the same basin where our vegetables are washed.
“Son of a bitch,” I mutter, surveying the wound. It’s worse than I thought. There shouldn’t be this much blood. That asshole might have nicked my brachial artery. If that’s the case, I’m going to need a lot more than a band aid to fix me up.
I stop cold as soft footsteps sound just beyond the kitchen. Damn—I was hoping that Thomas wouldn’t have to see this. Even he gets worried when he sees the occupational hazards involved with this job, and he’s more than used to it, having worked for my father before me.
“Don’t worry,” I mutter over my shoulder, “I’ve got it under control.”
“Got what under control, Mr. Roth?” says a soft, sleepy voice.
I wrench my gaze around only to find Hannah’s gorgeous green eyes staring back at me. She glances down at the bloody wound, and I brace myself for tears or worse. The women in my life have always balked at the slightest sight of gore. I expect the color to drain from Hannah’s face, or for her to sink into a good old fashioned faint. But instead, her eyes sharpen with razor focus.
“Hold still,” she commands, her voice firm and unassailable.
“Why aren’t you asleep in the annex?” I ask, as she crosses the kitchen.
“How long have you been bleeding?” she replies, ignoring my question.
“Not long,” I say gruffly. I watch with no small sense of wonder as she grabs a pair of kitchen scissors and cuts my shirt sleeve clear off my arm. Her hands reach down to my waist, and her eyes meet mine as she begins to quickly undo my belt.
God Damn.
She rips the belt from my pants and fastens it tightly around my bleeding arm. I feel relieved to see the blood flow slow to a trickle. Now why didn't I think of that?
“First aid kit?” she asks, maneuvering my arm over the sink.
“Just under there,” I say, nodding to a low cupboard.
Hannah bends over, rifling through the cabinet. Her ass, covered only by a thin tank top and cotton pajama shorts, hovers in the air, tempting me. The only thing keeping me from filling my hands with her firm, shapely ass is my gushing wound. Though my fingers ache to reach for her, there are more pressing concerns at hand than my libido. And that’s not something that happens very often.
“Here we go,” Hannah says, dragging a huge tin first aid kit onto the counter. She flips open the lid and rifles through its contents, expertly sorting through the collection to find what she needs. I watch in awe as she sets to cleaning the deep gash. Her composure is absolute, her focus unflinching. That level of professional detachment is something I admire very deeply. Her expertise is almost as much of a turn on for me right now as her tight, sexy body. An incredibly beautiful woman who also happens to be skilled, poised, and confident? If anyone could undo me, it’s this girl.
Using peroxide, she cleans the cut and sterilizes the equipment she’s going to need. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she begins to stitch up
my arm. Neither of us breathes a word throughout the procedure. I have to say, I’m relieved that she happened to be awake. If she hadn’t been here, I might have had to go to the hospital—and hospitals generally want to know about the origins of stab wounds. Too many loose ends of course.
“The wound's deep but not enough to hit the artery, you're a lucky man Mr. Roth," Hannah says, as she wraps up her emergency ministrations. "Although, I think you might want to take something for the pain.”
“I’ll be fine,” I tell her. “I have a high tolerance.”
“I have plenty of painkillers for your mother,” she insists, “Trust me. You’ll want to take a couple.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” I say, examining her work on my arm. The stitches are absolutely perfect. “You’re good at what you do, Miss Levy.”
“I have to be,” she shrugs, “I’m just glad I was here to help you.” She covers my wound with an antibacterial ointment and applies a thick sterile gauze bandage, taping it up securely.
“That makes two of us,” I say. I feel a smile creeping across my face. What the hell is the matter with me?
We stand over the sink together, a charged silence falling between us. I can practically hear the thousand unanswered questions rattling around her head, but the last thing I want to do is start in with explanations. The less she knows about me, the better.
Smiling back at me, Hannah takes my arm in her hands, examining the bandage. “That’ll leave a scar, you know,” she tells me.
“I’ve got a few already,” I tell her.
“From your time at the CIA?” she asks. I don’t fail to notice that her hands haven’t left my skin. There’s a warmth spreading through me from that seemingly innocent point of contact. All of the tension that built up between us in the guest house, before we were so suddenly interrupted by my latest client, rises back to the surface. There’s only so long we can ignore the sexual energy that’s flowing between us. I know it’s not smart, or right, or at all healthy to be lusting after my employee this way, but when have “the rules” ever stopped me before?
I want her. And her eyes are telling me in no uncertain terms that she wants me, too.
“From the CIA. Yes,” I tell her, turning my body ever-so-slightly to face her. Hannah’s fingers are raking lightly up and down my arm, her eyes fixed firmly on my own. I’ve always been a sucker for green eyes.
“There’s a lot we don’t know about each other, Lukas,” she says, her voice scraping against the bottom of her register.
“Yes,” I agree, savoring her steady, advancing touch, “Does that bother you, Hannah?”
She lifts her chin, bringing her face just a hair closer to my own. “I...I don’t know,” she says softly.
“You don’t know?” I say, lifting an eyebrow. Her hands trail down to my own. Slowly, tenderly, she laces her fingers with mine. This girl is taking a huge risk. I like that.
“There are so many things about me that I’m not ready to tell you,” she whispers, “And so many things about you that I’m dying to know. But I can’t very well expect you to be honest with me if I can’t bring myself to be completely honest with you.”
“Hannah,” I growl, her closeness driving me into a state of insatiable need, “I’m not interested in your past. I don’t need to know a damn thing about you that I haven’t already figured out. Honesty, divulging ugly secrets for the sake of it, is overrated. I’m sure you’re curious about my life. My past. But I’m not the type to dwell on such things. Do we have an understanding?”
She nods wordlessly, her plump lips parted just a bit. I raise my hand and brush her blonde hair back behind her ear. The small, harmless contact makes her tense up, and she drops her gaze to the ground. I look intently into her eyes, reading the new surge of anxiety that’s spilling through her.
“You haven’t been touched in a while, have you Hannah?” I ask quietly.
“N-no...” she admits, her body beginning to tremble. She looks back up at me, her beautiful green eyes radiate innocence.
“Do you...want me to stop?” I ask, our bodies agonizingly close. Her sudden vulnerability has given me an erection. One quick move and I could close the space between us, press her lips into a searing kiss, hoist her up onto the counter and thrust my cock into her wet, eager pussy. One move, even with a fucked up arm, and I could take her, but—
“I’m a little...confused,” she says, dropping her gaze again in embarrassment, “I want you, Lukas. I’ve wanted you since the minute I stepped into your office. But I’m...I’m just a little...”
With any other woman, I’d feel irritated, frustrated by her reluctance. But though I’m near to madness with wanting Hannah, her reservations only inspire...respect. Can that be possible? The insistent, pulsating erection building between my legs should be the only thing I’m concerned with at this moment, but instead I find myself worried about her.
“Hannah,” I say, cupping her chin in my hand. Her flinch is barely noticeable, but very telling all the same. “Listen to me. I will never, never, force you to do anything you’re not ready for.”
“OK,” she whispers, her eyes glossing over with tears.
“That doesn’t mean that I’m not going to have you,” I clarify, my entire body aching with wanting her, “Make no mistake, I am going to have you. In time, you’re going to come to trust me. Soon, that lust I see blazing in your eyes is going to overpower your fears and reservations. And when that time comes, I’m going to fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. I’m going to spread you open and fill every single inch of that amazing little body of yours. You’re going to be insatiable for me from the very start. Does that sound like something you want?”
“God, yes,” she gasps. Her fingers clasp the countertop so tightly that her knuckles are white. I trace a line with my fingertip from her chin down her throat. Her jugular pulses wildly there, and I run my finger across her pronounced collar bone.
“Good,” I growl, “That’ll make it so much hotter for me. I want to know exactly how fierce your lust for me is. I love knowing how much you want me to take you, even if you’re not ready for me yet. I don’t blame you for wanting to take things slow. In fact, I insist that we do. You need to brace yourself for me, Hannah. Because once I’ve had you, I won’t be able to ever leave you alone. I want you, Hannah. And I always get what I want.”
She stands wordless before me, her entire body trembling with desire and trepidation. She’s caught between wanting to throw herself at me and wanting to flee. Whatever is holding her back must be pretty damn powerful if it’s standing up to her need for me.
I respect that kind of baggage. I know exactly what that’s like. After my wife was killed, I didn’t sleep with another woman for over five years. I understand the sort of pain that can completely alter the course of your life. And the fact that Hannah does too only makes me want her more.
“You should get some sleep,” I tell her, widening the space between us.
“Y-yeah...” she breathes, collecting herself. “I’ll just...see myself to the annex...”
“Lovely,” I smile, turning toward the door. “Thank you for fixing me up, Miss Levy. I appreciate the effort. I can’t tell you how happy I am to have you here.”
“Oh, I think I know,” she says, a wicked smile playing on her lips.
We part ways, each of us knowing full well what the score is between us. I'm not sure what came over me, perhaps it's blood loss, but I went with my gut and I'm glad I did. I seem to have found an evenly matched partner in Miss Hannah Levy. And that’s just the way I want it.
Chapter Fifteen
-Hannah-
I don’t sleep a wink all that night. Staring up at the ceiling fan as it makes lazy rotations, I replay the scene in the kitchen again and again in my mind. Catching Lukas bent over the sink, his arm torn open, was the last thing I was expecting to find on my way to get a drink.
Before Lukas came home, I’d spent the rest of the night by Gertr
ude’s bedside, trying to talk myself out of being frightened by the room full of weapons I’d stumbled upon. I can venture a pretty good guess about where that missing rifle was, now—with Lukas. But where?
Shoving my hands through my hair, I wonder whether I can really accept not knowing exactly what he was up to tonight. What was he doing that put him in such immediate and present danger? There’s certainly no way he was off on a midnight hunting excursion. That gash in his arm wasn’t caused by a claw or talon. That was a knife wound, plain and simple. Thank God I have six years as an ER nurse behind me. Who knows what would have happened to Lukas if I hadn’t been there to help?
The thought sends icy tendrils of foreboding all through my body. Is this kind of thing always happening to Lukas? Does he live in a state of constant, uninterrupted peril? And if so, what the hell am I doing here, putting myself in the midst of it all? I have enough violence in my not so distant past.
I should be packing my bags and hitting the road. Between the goddamn armory I found and the fact that I spent part of this evening stitching up a stab wound, there’s more than enough reason for me to run away.
But when I remember the glint in Lukas’s eye, the way he laid out his intentions for me so directly, the fact that he’s willing to wait until I’m ready...Not to mention the fact that Gertrude needs me by her side. Well, I suppose there’s more than enough reason for me to stay, as well.
I feel as though I’ve spent my entire life waiting for things to get back to normal. But now that I think of it, my life has never been normal. From Gregory’s attack to Sloan’s abuse and now this entire web of intrigue with the Roths, unimaginable, extreme circumstances just seem to find me wherever I go.
Maybe it’s time that I embrace the madness.
Maybe I should quit trying to corral my life into something that passes for average. After all I’ve been through, an uneventful life is simply not something that’s going to happen for me. The average woman hasn’t been raped by the son of a family friend or terrorized by a maniacal, abuse ex—though God knows, too many women have these things in common with me. The average woman certainly doesn’t find herself playing house with a mysterious millionaire and his walk-in closet full of automatic skeletons. And yet, here I am with Lukas Roth, trying to decide whether being average, or safe, is so important to me after all.
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