“As I mentioned, Yusuf had taught me some Russian, so I knew enough to piece together the conversation, especially when I kept hearing Nikolai come up. That was what Dmitry called me, and I was the only one on the ship that went by that name.
“I asked Dmitry about it later. He told me that Alexandroff had become suspicious of me and that I needed to take part in the next deal or he’d put me off the ship, which was code for shoot me in the head and dump my body in the sea.”
Marissa’s gasp is soft. I keep my eyes closed, but I imagine the look of horror on her pretty face. I don’t want to see it because it will change if I tell her the whole story. But it might be best. Maybe she’ll realize I’m a terrible person to get mixed up with. Maybe she’ll demand that I stay the hell away from her.
I don’t know if I would, or if I even could. But she could try.
“What did you do?” she asks softly.
“I had no choice but to agree, so Dmitry made arrangements for me to accompany him on the next exchange. He said he’d do everything he could to protect me, to keep me out of it as much as possible. I just had to go, just to show I wasn’t some kind of rat.
“It was with a different group of bastards, some Dmitry knew to be a little more reasonable, and he thought it might be a safe way to prove myself to Alexandroff. So he gave me a gun, showed me how to shoot it two days before the trade, and then I went ashore with him to sell guns to terrorists.”
Marissa says nothing for a few minutes. I wonder if she’s planning an exit strategy even as she lies next to me with her body pressed against mine.
Her question surprises me. She’s pretty intuitive, it seems.
“Did you have to use your gun?”
I know my answer will likely cement the decision she’s already toying with, but she needs to know. She needs to know I’m toxic. It’s better for both of us this way.
“Yes.”
“Is . . . is that what the tattoos are for? For people you’ve . . . for every time you’ve had to use your gun?”
“No,” I reply. “There’s one band for every trade I lived through. Sometimes my gun wasn’t necessary.” I pause before I add, “But a lot of times it was.”
I feel her shift beside me. Her warmth disappears. Her reaction, her decision stings more than I thought it would, more than I’d like to admit. I figure it’s better now than later, though. I can’t afford to get attached. And it’s better for her if she doesn’t get attached, either.
I keep my eyes closed, ready to give her the cold, silent indifference that comes second nature to me. If she’s gonna leave, she won’t know that I give a shit. I won’t let her see.
But then she surprises me. I first feel the tickle of her hair as it dangles over my chest. Then the light touch of her lips on my cheek as she bends to kiss it.
“I’m so sorry for the life you had to lead. You were so young,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “You didn’t deserve that.”
Her hand splays across my chest as she scatters kisses all over my face and neck. I feel drops of warm wetness every so often. I don’t realize they’re tears until one hits my lips and I taste the salt.
She makes her way to my stomach, then down my right leg and back up again, dragging her lips and tongue along the inside of my thigh.
It’s not often I see the goodness in people. Or that they surprise me with compassion. Yet Marissa has. I just told her I’m a criminal and a killer, and rather than running the other direction, she cried for me.
Something burns deep inside my chest. I don’t have time to think about it or deny it, or devise a plan to rid myself of it. Marissa sees to that when her lips close over my engorged head. She makes it so that she’s all I can think about. She erases all other thoughts with the first swipe of her tongue. And I’m happy to let them go.
TWENTY
Marissa
I could watch Nash sleep for hours. In rest, the stern set of his mouth is more relaxed and the anger that seems to burn perpetually in the dark pits of his eyes is absent, leaving him just incredibly handsome. Not complicated.
There’s no denying he’s a twin. He looks nearly identical to his brother, so his features aren’t unfamiliar to me. But in a way they are. There are subtle things that I see right away that set him apart from his brother, things like a small scar that disrupts the smooth line of his right eyebrow, the lighter streaks in his hair from time spent under the sun at sea, and the bronze sheen to his skin. In my opinion, he’s ten times more handsome, more rugged than Cash. And certainly far more dangerous.
I realize what I’m doing as I stare at him.
Stop staring! You’re like the creepy watch-him-while-he-sleeps, obsessed girlfriend.
I make myself roll away from him and get out of bed. I’m as quiet as I can be. Nash is such a strong force, it’s easy to forget that he was stabbed not so long ago. No doubt his body needs the rest.
I head for the bathroom and a much-needed shower. As I lather and rinse my hair, I let my mind wander back to the conversation Nash and I had last night, to the things he told me. My heart aches at the thought of what he’s had to endure, at the thought of what he’s probably seen and done as a result of someone else’s mistakes. It’s no wonder he’s angry and bitter. And the loss of his mother— essentially his entire family—on top of that is horrific. I decide it’s a testament to his strength of character that he survived as well as he did.
But I think parts of him might be forever damaged, if they, in fact, survived at all.
I shake off the depressing thoughts. I don’t like to think about the very real possibility that he’ll never feel anything more for me than what he does right now, that he’ll never be capable of a more meaningful relationship.
But I knew that going in. He himself told me that he would hurt me. I guess I was either stupid enough or arrogant enough to think that I might be different, that he might change for me.
As water sluices down my body, I come to the harsh and disturbing realization that if anyone can help Nash feel again, it’s likely going to be someone a lot nicer than me. Someone more like Olivia. Someone with less baggage, someone who isn’t just as broken as he is. Together, our pieces might make one whole person. But I doubt it.
My morose thoughts only worsen when I get out of the bathroom to find not only an empty bed, but an empty condo. There’s no note, no indication of where he went or when he might be back. No nothing. Just an echo of my earlier worries, an echo that says Nash is inconsiderate because he just doesn’t care. And that he never will.