A faint smirk ghosts across her lips as she turns more fully toward me, crossing her legs under her. “All that”—she jerks her head in the direction of the bathroom—“and that’s the first thing you come up with? Me cleaning the pan?”

  I shrug. It isn’t. That comment has been nagging me since she made it. Yeah, digging in her perfect pussy became priority number one for me, but the way she worded it, the particular inflection in her tone, hunkered down in the back of my head like a squatter.

  She dips her head, staring down at her hands, specifically the one without the pinkie finger. She flips that hand over, touches it, a gesture I’ve noticed her do several times before. I can tell she’s self-conscious about the injury, but there’s no need. Not with me. I’m not fetishizing her or the wound, but it makes my dick hard. The idea of her suffering doesn’t get me hot; the knowledge that the pain didn’t break her but only carved into the badass woman who stands before me does.

  “I can still see the blood,” she murmurs, caressing the spot of her absent finger. “Still smell it, too. It’s funny how I can tell you the exact shade of the red, the dirty metallic scent of it, but the pain of my finger actually being cut off? That’s not as clear to me over the years.”

  She lifts her head, and I’m reeled in by that gaze like she’s a big-game fisherman. And I’m helpless on the hook. I cross the room and stop next to the bed, my fists thrust into the pockets of my sweatpants.

  “I sat in that chair, shivering, in pain, terrified, and to not pass out, all I could think about was cleaning up the floor. In my sixteen-year-old, delirious-with-hunger-and-agony mind, if I did away with the mess, then the kidnapping and the hell I was going through would go away, too. All I had to do was clean it up.”

  She falls silent, as if she’s trapped back in the past. A past that still seems to trigger her. Meanwhile, the word kidnapping ricochets through me like a bullet striking bone. Ice-cold shock slides down my spine and spills over my skin.

  “You were kidnapped?”

  Cocking her head, she blinks and studies me. “Yeah. You didn’t know that?”

  “Before my time.” Yet the rage rippling through me belies the nine years that have passed since the event. It roars in my veins, my head, demanding blood. “What happened?”

  “Me being young and impatient and a mistake in communication with my security created an opportunity for a gang to kidnap and hold me for ransom. At some point they must’ve rethought who they were demanding money from and making an enemy of, because two weeks after I was snatched, they released me without getting the ransom. But the damage had been done.”

  “Did they ever catch them?”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she says, and huffs out a dry, short chuckle. “Not for a lack of trying. When my mother died, she was in the middle of going scorched earth locating them. No one was safe. Including Abena.”

  My chin jerks back toward my neck. “What the hell did Abena have to do with it?”

  “She was in charge of all security at the time, including arranging my detail. It was her fuckup that’s partly to blame for me being taken. Or at least that’s what my mother believed.”

  “Is that why she had Aisha murdered?”

  “Only Abena can answer that,” Eshe says, cold steel in her voice. “But to answer your original question, I came away from that … event without a finger but with a new hang-up. I need shit to be in its place. Neat. Hell, it’s saying something about that dick that I left all that food on the floor last night before fucking you.” She smiles, and the strained tint to it has me fighting to keep my feet rooted right there beside the bed and not round the end of it. Not scoop her up off the mattress and lower her on my cock so I can fuck those shadows from her eyes and from that fake smile. “Right now, I’m battling the urge to go in that bathroom and make sure the shower is wiped down, the sink is spotless, and the floor is free of our DNA and water. Oh, and that you put the toilet seat down.”

  I give a low snort and lift one knee onto the bed, then the other. I crawl across the wide expanse until I crouch behind her and bury my face into the space between her neck and shoulder—a space that seems created for me. I breathe her in, that earthen scent mixed with the fresh smell of my soap, and even now, after having her, after nutting in her mouth and pussy, I find arousal winds through me in a hot, sinuous slide.

  Her hand rubs over my head, back and forth, back and forth. Maybe she can’t help but touch me like I can’t stay away from her. This is like some Deeper Magic, like in Narnia. Except instead of that power being etched into a Stone Table, she’s carved some spell, some curse into my skin, bone … soul.

  I’ve been alone for so long, it feels somehow wrong to allow this … intimacy. But there’s this tiny deprived part of me that longs for this. Though I’ve never experienced it, that same part recognizes it and hungers for it.

  “We’re all fucked up in our own way and out here doing the best we can to cope. To make it in this goddamn zoo we call a world,” I say, words muffled by her throat.

  “What’s your coping mechanism?”

  I pause, my heartbeat a thunderous echo in my head, against her back. “You already know.”

  She softly chuckles, but it’s not amused. More self-deprecating. “Your books. Movies. Apples. They’re your comfort and connection.”

  I lift my head and stare at the window covered by the blackout curtains. How does she…? Shit, you’d think I would’ve stopped asking that pointless question days ago. But her damn uncanny insight into me when I’ve made a career of being invisible is at the very least uncomfortable, at the most dangerous.

  No one knows me … I made sure no one could possibly know my identity, my secrets. I buried that shit so deep, an archeological dig would come up with only dirt and stones. And now, in this moment, I’m grateful to be sitting behind her in the dark. It doesn’t erase this crawling, vulnerable sensation of being so terribly exposed, but Eshe can’t see my weakness.

  And thank fuck, neither can I.

  “Why didn’t you kill me?” To my own ears, my voice sounds as if it’s traveled over miles and miles of unpaved, pockmarked road, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Nothing I can do about the desperation, the need I can’t hide.

  Eshe turns, twisting her body fully toward me, so even the shadows are no longer my barrier. I’ve never had an issue copping the flat, blank mask that camouflages my thoughts and nonexistent emotions. It’s the face of the assassin that has become more than a persona for me over the years. It’s who I am. But looking into her jeweled eyes …

  There’s desolation.

  Longing.

  Need.

  Grief.

  Everything that claws at my chest, attempting to gnaw its way free. A glimpse into her eyes is like staring into my own damned soul, and it’s as liberating as it is terrifying.

  Her long, elegant fingers lift and feather over my jaw, trail down my throat, and sweep to the back of my neck. A warmth blooms inside me, and for a second, I lean back into her touch, sink into her strength.

  “Who says I won’t?” she murmurs, her gentle grip a direct contrast to her deadly question.

  She could. If she thinks I didn’t notice the Glock tucked under the pillow, she takes me for a half-assed assassin. And that, I am not. Shit, mine is hidden under the edge of the mattress.

  But could I pull that trigger on her?

  I want to say yes. Fuck, I want to say yes.

  But wanting and doing … The waters have become so muddied between us, and for the first time, my job isn’t so black-and-white.

  “Don’t play with me, Eshe,” I warn on a low growl, and she shivers, her lashes fluttering closed. I silently and savagely curse. The least she could do is fucking pretend that I don’t affect her so profoundly. She should guard herself more securely around me. “Answer the question,” I snap, irrationally angry with her. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  “I’ve already told you countless times, but you don’t want to hear the truth.” She tightens her grip on my neck, squeezing hard before sliding her hand to my cheek and cupping it in a caress that’s too gentle, too … tender. It’s ten times more threatening than a knife to my jugular vein. “You refuse to believe me, so is there any point in repeating it?”

  “You’ve never answered that question directly. So do it. I’m listening. No riddles. No double-talk, Eshe. Just speak plain and honest.”

  She cocks her head, studies me closely for several moments that seem to stretch into hours. Her thumb rubs over my bottom lip, back and forth, back and forth.

  “All right. But for the record, I’ve always made it plain. You’re just not in the space to hear me. But here you go, Malachi: I didn’t kill you, because you’re the Huntsman. And you’re Malachi Bowden. And both of them are mine. They both belong to me. I already explained to you what that means. I come hard behind mine. I will fuck this whole world up and leave nothing behind but bones, because there’s nothing I won’t do, no sin I won’t commit to protect those I love. Nothing is off-limits, including bringing down a queen who threatens their lives. Get me now? Is that plainspoken enough?”

  I jerk my head back, and if I could crawl off the bed and away from her until I crouched in the far corner, I would. But I settle for flinching as if my skin touched hot lava. And I recoil. I, Malachi Bowden, the Huntsman, fucking flinch.

  Because in the blink of an eye, with words that are as deadly as any loaded gun, Eshe Diallo became the bogeyman. And she terrifies the fuck out of me.

  Her expression doesn’t change, but resignation whispers through her eyes. “Malachi…” she murmurs.

  “The fuck,” I interrupt on a snarl, shifting back on the mattress and placing the smallest amount of space between us. I need it though. I need some space so I can fucking breathe.

  No sin I won’t commit to protect those I love. Nothing is off-limits, including bringing down a queen who threatens their lives.

  No sin I won’t commit to protect those I love.

  My chest seizes, and shit, it’s like I’m having a goddamn heart attack. Only, I know it’s not that. Panic bands around my ribs, squeezing harder and tighter. Gold and black spots blink in front of my eyes, and her words echo over and over in my ears under the dull roar howling there. I vault from the bed, and as soon as my feet hit the floor, I begin pacing the length of the bedroom, making sure to steer clear of Eshe. Yeah, I’m fully aware I’m like a bleeding, wounded animal protecting itself while growling and snapping at anyone who dares come near it.

  In a very real way, I’m fighting for my life, and she’s the threat. And her claims of protection, of devotion, of … love are the very imminent threats.

  I violently shake my head, my jaw flexing.

  “You asked me—” she begins.

  “No.” I slash a hand through the air, throwing a narrowed look at her. “You’re lying. You can’t love me.” The words grind out of me, so low, so guttural, I almost can’t understand them myself. “That’s not possible.”

  “Why?” Her tone is even, damn near conversational, and for some reason, that just pisses me off more. She’s tearing me to pieces, and she’s so fucking calm about the wreckage. “Why isn’t it possible? Because you don’t want love? Or…” She cocks her head. “Because you don’t think you’re worthy of it?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Why wouldn’t you be worthy, Malachi?” she asks again. “Because you have blood on your hands? On your soul? Because you hand out death like other people give out advice? Because…” Her voice lowers, and dropping on all fours, she crawls to the edge of the bed and then kneels, scrutinizing me with that bright gaze. “Because you like it?” she asks in that throaty, hypnotizing voice. I stare at her, stuck, pinned to the floor like a butterfly fixed to a corkboard. “Because that makes you a monster? Even monsters need love. Maybe we need it—deserve it—more.”

  I can’t move because, against my will, she has my attention. My fingers tingle with the urge to touch her, to graze the stubborn edge of her jaw, brush the lush curve of her mouth. Trace the stark line of her cheekbone. I want to imprint her skin, her thick, curvy body, with my hands, my mouth, my dick.

  It’s that desperate want that has me remaining in place when everything in me screams to abandon this room, this apartment. To run.

  To leave before she does it first.

  “Why?” I grind out.

  “Why do we deserve it more?” Apparently taking my silence for affirmation, she continues, sitting her ass on her heels. “People like you and me … We’ve known more darkness than light. Seen more violence than peace. Experienced more death than life. Have even been a part of dealing in that death. That darkness, that death? It can crawl inside you, take up residence, and leave a stain that’s impossible to erase. And if we’re not careful, that stain can grow and swallow us whole. But love, for people like us—monsters like us—is the difference between losing our soul and keeping our humanity. Everyone deserves it. But who do you think needs it more? Someone who’s only been protected, cared for, adored, sheltered? Or someone who’s only ever seen the worst this world has to offer, been handled by it? We do. We need it more. Unpopular opinion, but I believe love was an invention just for us.”

  By the time she finishes speaking, my breathing is harsher, more labored. Tremors ripple through my body, as if it’s being subjected to electrical shock after shock.

  I don’t know who moves first—her or me.

  Before she can climb off the bed, I’m on her. Climbing on top of her. Covering her. Quickly discovering this is my favorite place in the world to be. I crush my mouth to hers, parting her lips with mine. The kiss is wild, furious, nasty. And then, like the quiet after a destructive storm, it turns tender, softer.

  A humiliating whimper lodges in my throat.

  The warning screams inside my head, rebounding off the walls. But it’s much too late for that. My control has taken a direct frontal assault, and it doesn’t exist anymore. And I drive my fist into the mattress beside her head. Once. Twice. Three times. Eshe doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to evade the blows only inches from her face. She just stares up at me, lips swollen from our kiss, her eyes bright, fathomless pools.

  “I don’t want your love.”

  “I didn’t ask for your permission. You don’t get a say in this.”

  I shove off her and stalk to my dresser. After snatching a drawer open, I grab a T-shirt and pull it on, then head to the closet.

  “Get dressed,” I throw over my shoulder.

  When silence greets my order, I glance at her, and she slowly swings her legs over the edge of the bed, but she doesn’t stand.

  “You want to give me an idea what for? Midday snack? A little recreational reconnaissance? Or maybe some loungewear for a Young and the Restless binge? I hear Nikki’s lost her memory again and Victor’s … Victoring.”

  “You think this is a joke?” I snarl, grabbing my boots and slowly straightening and turning around. Goddamn. Her social cues couldn’t be that fucking off.

  “No, Malachi.” She stands with a shrug. “Just asking a question so I know how to proceed.”

  “How to proceed,” I repeat on a growl, dropping the boots to the floor with a thud as I advance on her. “Nah, you tell me, Eshe. You’re the one eventually leaving, right? Like I didn’t understand that ‘atonement’ shit,” I sneer. “Talking ’bout how you love me when you about to get ghost as soon as you what? Get some sleep? Get another nut?” I shoot her a disgusted glare as I fall to the bed and snatch open the bedside drawer. I grab a pair of socks and pull them on and then pick up a boot again. “Get dressed,” I order without looking at her.

  My heart lodges in my throat, and I can barely breathe past the blockage. She can keep that fucking love. Like I said, I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want any parts of it. Every person in my life who has every loved or cared for me abandoned me, left me—died on me. Not one exception.

  My parents.

  Miriam.

  Derrick.

  All dead. All left me behind to survive in the world on my own. Every last one of them claimed to love me.

  Fuck love.

  Love isn’t some saving grace or lofty aspiration. It’s a virus, a threat more dangerous than any weapon of mass destruction. People have killed in the name of it, and empires have fallen for its sake. And here she stands, throwing that word at my feet like I’m supposed to … what? Be thankful? Embrace it? Want it?

  No. Hell no.

  If I allowed it, she would be my fucking kill shot.

  And I have no intentions of allowing that.

  I need her to get the fuck out before she leaves me.

  Get the fuck out before I beg her to stay.

  Her scent of cedarwood and musk reaches me before she does, but I keep my gaze trained on the task of getting my boots on. Looking at her clothed in just my T-shirt with all that beautiful brown skin and her thick, gorgeous thighs on display might dent my resolve. And right now, I can’t afford to be shaken. I’m fighting for my survival, and it’s every man for themselves.

  As it’s always been.

  “Malachi…”

  “Since your bike is still where you left it, use one of mine or borrow a car. I have trackers on all my shit, so I’ll know where to pick it up.” I finish tying my boots, stand, and stride back to the dresser and grab a long-sleeved shirt. “That should also give you some padded time with Poison. She’ll be looking for your vehicles, not mine, unless Abena has already passed on the information that I was with you in the compound. In case she has, you need to have your head on a swivel while you get to wherever you’re going. And make sure your people know that, too. Don’t trust anyone they don’t personally know, because no one has seen Poison’s face and can identify her.”

  “I’m leaving to protect you.”

  I briefly pause midmotion, eyes closing and jaw clenching. My hands fist the shirt so tight, I’m faintly surprised the material doesn’t rip. But after a moment, I jerk the shirt down over my head. Not bothering to reply, I sharply pivot on my heel and stalk for my closet. Shoving aside clothes, I press my palm to a spot on the back wall, and a second later, the panel flickers green. The wall slides open, and I step inside a room that holds an arsenal of weapons.

 

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