Eternity

by Tmonique Stephens

  Inches from her lips, “Trust me.”

  She shook her head. “Teach me.”

  “Teach you to protect yourself?” Did he understand her correctly?

  She hesitated. “Yes . . . please.”

  He wanted to be the one to protect her. Her body, heart and soul.

  “Turn around.” He waited until she shifted and faced him. “I’ll teach you to survive at any cost. Your first lesson—” he returned his hand beneath her top, needing to keep the connection. “Is to remember key body points.”

  He took her hand. “When in close quarters, going for the eyes will maim, even kill.” He brought her fingers to his face and let her feel his closed eyes. He closed her hand and made a fist. “A fist to the throat will surprise and buy you time to get away.”

  He opened her fingers and moved her hand down the side of his throat across his pecs, to the center of his chest. “And a good kick here may stop your opponent’s heart.”

  Hand still covering her scars, he caressed tender flesh and watched her lips part in expectation.

  “Understand?” He stroked her sensitive skin.

  “Yes.”

  So quiet he almost missed the word. Roman studied her features as she struggled to contain her emotions.

  “I know you’re afraid, but I will never let anything hurt you again.”

  Her hand returned to his face and he placed a kiss in her palm.

  “. . . All right, Roman. I’ll trust you.”

  No longer fighting him, she snuggled closer.

  But still not close enough. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her completely against him, then stayed awake until her limp body and soft snores told him she slept.

  He wanted to crush her to him, bind her to his side, make her his.

  Death loomed. Its brutal reach so near to his beloved. He would do anything to keep her safe, give anything to gain her heart, but right now, he said a silent prayer to a god that never answered him.

  Please God, let me have this one thing. Let me have her.

  CHAPTER 12

  “What kind of detective throws up on the fucking evidence? You’re an embarrassment!”

  Detective Alexis Lever stood at attention before Captain Wallace, rigid with humiliation while the entire squad watched through the open blinds of his office. Tears threatened. She refused to let one fall and give them something else to use against her, to laugh at her, to hate her. McCabe dragged her in front of the captain as soon as they returned from Walker’s apartment. Partners didn’t do that. They protected each other; covered for each other; lied for each other—but not for her. The blue wall didn’t extend her way.

  Wallace saw her struggling and finally paused his tirade. He planted his ass in his leather chair and shuffled the stack of papers on his desk. Grateful for the distraction, she summoned images of her father’s stoic face and managed to quell her ragged emotions.

  “You’re smart Lever, I’ll give you that, but passing a test and going out into the field are two entirely different things. Two years on the force and you’re a detective? Who ever heard of such bullshit? But leave it to the state and that civil liberties union to fuck up a system that worked for years.”

  Never mind it was racist and sexist, she wished she had the nerve to say.

  “If I didn’t respect your father so much, I’d bring you up for dismissal and deal with the fall out, but that man saved my ass more than once so I guess I can do the same for his daughter.” He shot a speculative glance at her.

  “You’re a pretty girl, Lever. Your father told me you came in third in a beauty contest once. You should find yourself a husband and settle down. Lots of eligible men out there.” The Captain nodded in agreement.

  Is he selling shares in a dating company?

  “There is no shame in admitting you’re out of your league, Lever. No shame at all. No one would hold it against you and you’d leave with your head held high.” The Captain told her as she stood before him.

  Her father would hold it against her. Major General Martin Lever would never forgive her failure. “Thank you, Sir, but I’m not out of my league and I’m not quitting.”

  Yeah, the thought entered her mind, but she would never embarrass her father, and her brothers would never let her live another failure. And her mother—she would be too happy to see her go down in a ball of flames.

  “All right, Lever. I’ll give you one more chance, because of your old man, but this is it. I can’t fire you, but one more fuck up and I’m sending you to Vice, stroll patrol until you quit or retire.” He leaned forward until all she could see was his yellow teeth and bitter grin. “Yah got me?”

  One nod and she returned to her desk. She swallowed the bitter lump lodged like a square peg in her throat. Quitting? The Lever family didn’t quit. The entire force could kiss her ass. She wasn’t quitting, not the force and not this case. She had some leads to follow and one of them was Roman Nicolis. He may not be the killer, but something wasn’t right about him. If the road lead to him, she would walk it . . . alone if need be.

  The bright neon lights of Joe’s Diner sliced into the gloomy late evening night. “We don’t have to enter,” Roman said, his fingers gently brushing her arm. Standing outside the restaurant, his words sounded reasonable, logical even, but that didn’t stop the pounding of her heart. Still, she moved forward.

  “Are you sure?”

  The warmth of his palm seeped into her and calmed the growing dread. His hand stroked slowly down her arm to cup her elbow. Stella looked into his handsome face. Worry creased his forehead and pleasure bloomed in her chest. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone worried about her or even cared.

  “You’ve a long day.”

  True, but she had more energy than ever before, almost as if nothing happened to her. Though only a few days out of the hospital, she healed incredibly fast. Still, she hoped she didn’t pay for it later, but if she did, oh well. She’d survived worse. The thought of being cooped up in her apartment, guarded like she was the crown jewels, held no appeal. Though there were worse things than being trapped with Roman. Every night they shared the futon. Wrapped in his arms, she’d never felt safer or more confused. “I’m fine and we won’t be here long. I just need to get my last paycheck.” She smiled. He studied her face a moment longer before opening the door.

  She paused in the doorway and breathed in the comforting scent of French fries, bacon grease and coffee. For three years, she earned a paycheck here and hated every minute. Hated the cheap linoleum, the checkered Formica tables and faded pinstriped wallpaper. The bad retro her boss’ subconscious spewed forth after a late night toe-to-toe with a bottle of Jack and Elvis Presley, had wormed its way into her heart. Familiarity bred comfort and the hideous place became home.

  “Stella? Oh my god, it’s you.” Cathy rushed over and pulled her into a smothering embrace. In his customary grease stained apron, Joe lumbered from behind the counter and joined the crush. Stella breathed deeply and Cathy’s botanical shampoo mixed with Joe’s smoky sweat. Home, the word circulated sweetly in her brain.

  “It’s so good to see you. We both came by the hospital a few times, but they didn’t know when you’d wake up. Then you did and before I could get there, you were gone. What are you doing out of bed?” Cathy asked.

  “I came to get my paycheck.” She suffered their attention until Cathy noticed Roman still standing in the doorway.

  “Hello.” Cathy dragged out the word until it was a full sentence. She eyed him from the crown of his jet-black hair head to the toe of his jet-black boots. “And who are you?” She broke free from the hug and sauntered over to him.

  “He’s with me, Cathy.” Stella surprised herself by rushing to Roman’s side. “He’s my bodyguard.”

  “Bodyguard? Are you serious?” Cathy half laughed.

  “Why do you need a bodyguard?” Joe chimed in.

  “As long as The Strangler is free, she’s in danger.” Roman’s deep voice rumbl
ed through her.

  Cathy cupped Stella’s face in her hands. “I told you to take a cab. Finally, I’m right about something and it has to be this. Go figure. Shit, girl, you coulda died. How are you?” Cathy brushed Stella’s hair out of her face and gasped. Stella jerked away.

  Roman’s arm circled her waist and pulled her close to him.

  “Stella, your face—”

  “I’m better.” Stella shrugged and glanced at Roman. Those blue eyes caressed her, missing nothing.

  “You’re more than better.” Joe’s meaty hand patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Are you hungry? Grab a seat. I’ll fix you both Stella’s favorite.” He returned to the kitchen.

  They sat in a booth near the back of the diner. Cathy quickly brought water and two Cokes. She tried to linger, but more customers entered. Facing the exit, Roman’s gaze shifted from hers to the door. Stella turned and together they studied a group of college students entering. When she turned back, Roman was staring at her.

  “Care to tell me what your favorite meal is?” He pulled the menu from the holder at the other end of the table.

  “I wouldn’t necessarily call anything in here my favorite, though a few things are more edible than others,” she whispered.

  He grimaced and she took the menu from him.

  “The chicken strips and fries are safe if he doesn’t overcook them. The hamburgers are more than good. Don’t eat the seafood.” She lowered her voice. “It’ll kill you.”

  Roman leaned forward and crooked a finger for her to do the same. “Nothing can kill me. I’m indestructible.”

  Looking at his muscular body and staring at his rugged face, she believed him. Hell, hovering inches from his smiling lips, breathing in the woodsy, masculine scent of him, she’d believe anything he wanted to tell her. She sat back on her side of the booth.

  Two chicken strip baskets slid in front of them. “I swiped their order for you,” Cathy said conspiratorially, pointing a finger at the couple playing tongue hockey at the table closest to the front door. “They’re in love.” She rolled her eyes. “They won’t mind waiting ten more minutes.”

  “So,” Cathy turned her attention to Roman. “Can you guard me when you’re done with Stella ‘cause my body definitely needs protecting.” Blonde from a bottle, tanned from a salon, her million-watt smile worked on many men and she didn’t spare him any of the wattage.

  “He’s unavailable, Cathy.” Stella warned.

  Roman’s gaze slid to hers.

  “Oh, Okay.” Cathy’s smile wavered, but rebounded quickly. “Anymore like you back at the agency?”

  “There are a few more. You can choose from the bunch.” Stella’s mouth and libido were in cahoots. She stuffed a French fry between her lips.

  “If you are ever in trouble, any friend of Stella’s is a friend of the family. We’ll gladly protect you.” Roman returned her smile.

  Slightly flustered, Cathy played with her hair and stuttered, “W-well, thank you.” The pick-up bell dinged, dragging her away.

  Through the curtain of her hair, Stella watched Roman and waited for him to say something. He didn’t. He picked up the ketchup and began bathing his food. All it took was five days for him to breach her well-structured defenses. Five days in his company and she wanted more.

  “Thank you for taking me to the firing range.”

  “Anything to make you feel more secure.”

  Stella pulled her target sheet from her back pocket and spread the bullet-ridden paper on the table. “I’m not a bad shot.” She touched each hole.

  “Actually, you’re pretty good, for a first timer.”

  His compliment sent a rush through her. She didn’t try to hide her smile. “Thank you for the gun.”

  “I never thought my first gift to you would be a Heckler and Koch.” He chuckled. “A few hours of training won’t make you an expert, but you’re welcome.” His eyes twinkled. Combined with his smile, her core tingled. She shifted in her seat.

  “Are you okay? You seem . . . uncomfortable,” he said with too much awareness in his voice.

  “Tell me about E.J. and Thane. They’re not related to you, are they? I mean, not biologically,” she said, deflecting.

  “Do they have to be related to me to be my brothers?”

  “No, I guess not. I’ve just never heard of anything like it before.” Stella sipped her drink

  “Heard of what before?”

  “A group of men living together who aren’t related.”

  “But we are related. By blood and by choice, we’re a family. We’re fifth, seventh and ninth cousins.”

  “How did you all find each other? I mean, who actually knows their ninth cousin?”

  “Do you have any family?”

  His question caught her by surprise. She sat back in her chair as her stomach soured. “I suspect you know the answer to that question already.”

  She waited for his response, but he didn’t. Patiently, he waited for her to continue. Those steady blue eyes never left her.

  “You didn’t take my case without a thorough background check, right?” Still he didn’t answer. She took a swig of Coke and cleared her throat.

  “I’m sorry if my question was painful. I didn’t intend it to be.” He sighed and reached across the table, brushing her knuckles.

  She believed him. Not because his soothing touch made her want to shed all her burdens and place them—and her—in his strong hands, but because his open face and pleading gaze couldn’t possibly be lying to her.

  “My mom died two days after my twelfth birthday. A brain aneurysm. One day here, next day gone. My father grieved . . . for six months, then he began dating twenty-five year old Lauren. My forty-five year old, balding father started screwing a woman young enough to be his daughter. Then he married her and didn’t understand why I didn’t want to call her mom. Four years later, he had a heart attack and I ended up in foster care. Surprise! Lauren really didn’t want a sixteen-year old stepdaughter. Dad didn’t leave a will, so she collected all the insurance money, took my eight month old baby sister and disappeared from my life.”

  She took another swig of Coke and wished she had a flask of rum in her back pocket to add. A buzz would do her soul good right about now.

  “Do you miss them?”

  “My mom—” Stella nodded solemnly. “She was the best. She was an interior designer and she’d take me on her jobs. I’d carried her samples and sketches.” Her words broke apart when a swell of emotion threatened to choke her.

  “Do you want a family, of your own, someday?”

  A family of her own? It wasn’t the first time she’d flirted with that question, but she’d always come to the same conclusion. Families had a way of hurting you more than anyone else ever could, because they got close and personal when they stuck the knife in and twisted. And it wasn’t just your heart they broke; they broke your spirit, soul, and everything else. Family had a way of stripping you bare the way a stranger never could.

  “No. I’m used to being on my own. It works for me.”

  Roman stopped eating and studied her while she stuffed her face. She didn’t like it.

  “I’ll get Joe to give me my check.”

  She slipped from the booth and walked into the kitchen.

  “Employees only.” Joe cackled at his own joke.

  “Funny Joe. My last check please and I’ll leave your kitchen.” She smiled at him.

  Joe wiped his hands on his apron and walked into the small office next to the bathroom. Stella flipped the burgers until he returned with her paycheck.

  “When are you coming back?”

  “Soon,” she hedged, but right now soon seemed very far away.

  She exited the kitchen and Cathy stopped her. “Whatever happens, I want you to be okay and to have fun. With that guy.” She pointed to Roman. “That man is built for pleasure.”

  An automatic protest rose to her lips, but Cathy cut her off.

  “You’re the most beautiful pe
rson I know, Stella. You deserve some happiness and if he’s the one, then grab hold of him.”

  Stella glanced over her shoulder. Roman steadily watched her. Taking Cathy’s advice wouldn’t be hard but—

  “I’m not beautiful. Not anymore . . . if I ever was.” Her words came softly. “Besides, what has being beautiful ever done for me?”

  Her parents still died, her stepmother left her in foster care. Beauty hadn’t made her life any easier. Maybe in another life, she’d appreciate her once perfect skin and symmetrical features. In this life, blending in and being left alone is what she wanted . . . except when Roman looked at her. Like he stared at her now.

  A man stepped in front of her blocking Roman from her sight. “Are you Stella Walker?”

  Fight or flight instinct made the fine hairs on her forearms raise. Her heart drummed in her chest and her muscles clenched in anticipation of violence.

  Roman’s big, solid body stepped in front of her, shielding her from an average looking man who was stammering an incoherent explanation.

  “Who are you?” Stella peeked around Roman’s body.

  “What do you want?” Roman demanded, his voice rumbled through her hands touching his back.

  “Elliot Cook. I’m a reporter. I would love to talk about what happened to you.”

  Stella reeled.

  Roman’s eyes narrowed. “She’s not giving interviews.”

  She drew strength from his unwavering power.

  “This isn’t for a one time article. I’m writing a book about the killer and you being the only survivor—”

  “No.” The last thing she wanted was more exposure. Stella walked around the man and grabbed her purse from the booth. She slung the strap over her shoulder and started for the exit.

  “You don’t understand. My novel will be an in-depth study into the psyche of a killer that only hunts the dregs of society.”

  Stella paused in the doorway. Roman’s hand touched her shoulder, gently urging her forward, but she pivoted and looked at the reporter.