Reborn Page 18

  She swallows hard, slowly releases her grip, and drops on the pale-blue velvet couch. Her red-rimmed eyes remain locked on me.

  I give her an extra few seconds before I leave, to make sure she isn’t going to freak out. I wouldn’t blame her if she did, but this hotel has to be our sanctuary for the next couple of days at least. I don’t want to raise suspicions right out of the gate.

  At the front desk, the concierge upgrades us to an executive suite that will give us some room to move around. With Isabel’s fragile emotional state, I don’t want her to get stir-crazy and bolt. She doesn’t know it yet, but I’ll have to leave her at some point. I don’t know how I’m going to pull that off yet. I manage a smile when I look her way as the man hands me the key cards and rambles on in his best customer-service tenor about the amenities I don’t especially care about.

  I hand him a hundred-dollar bill when he finishes.

  “What’s this for, sir?”

  “I need a bottle of Leblon and a bowl of limes delivered to the room as soon as you can.”

  He lifts his eyebrows. “I will do my best, sir.”

  “Do better than your best,” I say before turning back for Isabel.

  After a short elevator ride to our floor, I get her settled in the room. She says she can’t sleep yet, so I run her a hot bath using the hotel shampoo to make bubbles. The bathroom is muggy and smells like lavender when there’s a knock at the door. Room service brings in a bucket of ice, an unopened bottle of my favorite cachaça, and an ample serving of sliced limes as requested. I tip the man and turn to Isabel sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She’s little more than catatonic, her eyes glossy and far away. She’s propped up with her hands as if she can barely support the weight of her own body. I coax her into the bathroom and undress her again. This time she’s not shaking. We’re not in a hurry, so I go slow, whispering my lips over her skin every once in a while. Her forehead, her palms, the place above her knees, silently kissing the wounds she’s sustained on the inside.

  Even in this traumatic state, she’s still beautiful. Soft and warm. Delicate and full in all the right places. I resist the urge to drag her into my lap and kiss her until she’s breathless and thoroughly distracted from all this misery. God knows I could use a diversion too, but she’s undeniably fragile. The rum will have to do.

  She submerges in the tub and closes her eyes with a sigh. I leave and return with two tumblers of rum on ice, three juiced limes floating in each.

  “Here.” I offer one to her.

  She clutches the cool glass with both hands and takes a swallow, exhaling softly. I arrange myself on the floor, my back to the wall so I face her.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  She drapes one wet arm on the lip of the tub. I take it and slide my fingertips from her palm up her forearm. The simple touch holds so much. Forgiveness, solidarity, regret…

  “You don’t ever have to thank me,” I say. “For anything ever again, actually.”

  “This isn’t your fault.” Fresh tears gleam in her eyes. “I insisted we stay there.”

  “Isabel, no. Don’t do this to yourself.”

  In no way was today’s bloodshed her fault. I sent her to DC to keep her safe. I promised to protect her, which I barely managed to do today. I’m damn lucky she’s alive.

  I clutch her hand tightly and slug down a mouthful of rum, eager to take the edge off that unsettling thought and this whole day.

  I learned to let go of my guilt a long time ago. For the people I was hired to kill and for anyone else who got in the way. But the vision of Isabel meeting the same fate as Brienne has me faintly nauseated. I can’t lose her. I refuse to accept the possibility.

  “I miss Rio,” she whispers, sidelining my thoughts. With one finger, she dunks her limes under the ice in a hypnotic rhythm.

  “Me too.”

  I’ve never missed a place. Never found myself in a new city that made me want to uproot and start over. But now I miss the island-dotted view of the ocean from my abandoned apartment in Ipanema. I miss the heat, even the chaos in the streets.

  “We can’t stay in DC much longer.”

  She nods, sad understanding in her eyes.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  This hunt for a phantom enemy isn’t leading us in any particular direction. If we need to disappear, at least we have an open road in front of us. Whether we like it or not, we’re in this together for the foreseeable future.

  “Someplace warm, I think.” She finishes her drink and looks up at the ceiling. She seems more relaxed now.

  “That sounds good to me.”

  Our fingers lace and stroke lazily against one another. When her eyes start closing for longer stretches, I pull the plug to the drain and get her dry and into bed. Tucking her close to me, I hope for dreams to quell the nightmare we survived today.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Isabel

  Harsh sunshine pours in through the window. The golden rays glint off the handgun set on the small table in the corner of the room. Memories rain down, funneling into my sharpening consciousness. Brienne. The explosion of blood. Makanga’s wary face as we left the brief haven of his place. I press the heels of my hands against my eyes, refusing to let the agony take hold of me. I’m not sure my heart can survive another day of it.

  Now that the shock has finally worn off, staying steeped in my anguish isn’t possible. Mourning Brienne’s death will have to fit into the empty places between seeking out the truth and running for our lives. I can’t wallow like this for days. Friends won’t bring casseroles to the house. No one will give me time and space to process this new emptiness.

  This is my life now…

  I get up and go to the chair beside the table and stare at the weapon. I study its dark metal tones and mold my hand around its cool, textured grip. Its heft alone is intimidating, never mind its purpose.

  I think back to when Tristan pushed a gun into my hand with his blessing to use it against Mateus if I needed to. Everything was happening so fast, but even in the milliseconds between dodging Jay’s henchmen and speeding toward town, I recognized that I couldn’t do what Tristan expected me to. I was more likely to let myself be killed than put myself to the test of taking someone else’s life.

  I bring the gun into my lap, supporting its weight with my other hand. I trace its lines and mechanisms, delicately familiarizing myself with it as if it were a wild creature that could turn violent on me at any moment. Inherently, I know I have to push my fear of it away if I’m to ever wield its power to my own benefit.

  But to what end… To protect? To kill?

  The pad of my index finger rests on the curved trigger. A smooth, almost welcoming resting place. Pull and release. Done.

  Emotion clogs my throat. I flinch when the bathroom door opens. Tristan stands frozen before me.

  His dark hair is slicked back. His lips are parted, eyes fixed on the gun in my lap.

  “You okay?”

  I move my finger away from the trigger, not trusting my nerves. He walks over to me, his bare feet soundless on the hotel carpet. The towel wrapped around his lower half splits over his thigh as he crouches in front of me.

  “What are you doing with that?”

  I shake my head and swallow hard. I have no business with this gun, but I feel so powerless over my life, a part of me wonders if making this weapon an extension of myself could change that.

  Tristan eases the gun out of my hands and places it back on the table.

  “Is that what you use? You know, when you kill someone?”

  His brows draw together slightly. “It’s quick,” he says, his voice low. “I’m not into prolonged torture.”

  I nod as if I get it, but I don’t.

  “The names in your book… Are they all dead?”

  He’s silent a moment. “Yeah.”

  “I want to know who killed Brienne.” My voice breaks over her name. “Then I want to find that person so I can see how
it feels to balance the injustice of an innocent life being taken.”

  “Are you in the revenge business now?”

  A hot tear travels down my cheek. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Because it’s not who you are.”

  I straighten my shoulders. “It’s who you are. Or have you grown a conscience since you decided not to kill me?”

  He sighs and takes my hands in his, massaging them. “Sometimes people get caught in the crossfire, Isabel. I know that better than anyone. We need to focus on who hired me to kill you.” He hesitates, looking down a moment before meeting my eyes again. “I need to talk to Jay. I looked her up. It’s definitely her.”

  More tears fall. Hateful, angry tears. I cover the tops of his hands with mine and squeeze. “She’s a monster for what she did to you.”

  “But she’s a monster I know.”

  “She wants us both dead. Why would you go to her?”

  The corner of his mouth lifts into a wry grin. “You walked right into the dragon’s lair, Isabel. Why can’t I?”

  “I’m so scared,” I speak through my tears. “I can’t lose you.”

  Something shadows his eyes. His smile fades. His lips part slightly. I want to touch them, trace their etched fullness with mine, drown in his kisses that feel like so much more than the melding of mouths.

  “You won’t lose me, Isabel. We’re in this together now. Just you and me.”

  Just you and me.

  His gritty words are a touch of salve on what feels like never-ending pain. I close my eyes, letting the tears cool on my cheeks. I tunnel my fingers into his damp hair as he feathers warm kisses across my bare legs and our intertwined hands.

  When the brush of lips gives way to his teeth and tongue, I let my head fall back with a sigh. The sensations spider out, creating a heat that’s almost painful in its intensity.

  “Make me believe it, Tristan.” I whisper the plea. “Make me feel it.”

  He nips at my inner thigh. I gasp and look down to where he’s soothing the same place with his flattened tongue. Our gazes lock. Suddenly the desire we’ve been feeding and tempting and sidestepping all this time feels different. Like we’re not fighting what could be but denying what simply is.

  I’m done with denying. Done with fear. My heart knocks against my ribs, hard enough that I feel the pulse of it everywhere. He rises and brings me up with him. As we move together, I slant my lips over his, moaning into the contact. His answering kiss isn’t patient or careful, as if something’s unleashed in him the same way it has in me.

  I’m overwhelmed with a sudden frenzy to take this further. To find a place safe from the passing of time and the danger that seems to close in on us every day. To be consumed by this unstoppable desire.

  He nudges us to the bed, and we tumble down together. Our hands are everywhere. He tugs my shirt off with one unapologetic sweep.

  “We can stop.” His words don’t match his movements. Every tender touch has an edge. A ridge of teeth. The blunt edge of his nails down my thighs locked tight around his hips. “If it’s too much, tell me now.” His voice is thready with restraint.

  “No… I need this.”

  I need too much. I need to feel something other than this fear. This valley of darkness in my soul growing wider with every fresh tragedy, every harrowing realization of what the world is truly made of. Tristan may be covered in its shadows, but we’re in this together… I can live in the margins if I have him with me. If we can have this…

  Tristan holds his weight above me, dragging hungry kisses down my neck and along my shoulder. I arch and tug at his waist, eager to feel the heavy press of him, all his harnessed strength.

  Licking along my collarbone, he drifts his mouth to the small charm resting in the well below my neck.

  “My miracle,” he whispers when he gets back to my ear. “My saint…”

  I can’t wait anymore. I push my panties down, and he drags them the rest of the way. I reach for the knot where his towel is tucked in, and it falls away, the sensation of terry cloth replaced by the rough hair on his legs as I lock my thighs around him. The searing heat of his erection slides up my belly. He glances down between us, repeating the motion until I’m trembling.

  He pins my hip to the mattress with one hand, stilling my impatient gyrations.

  “I can’t risk getting you pregnant, Isabel. I wasn’t thinking straight last time.”

  I blink up into his eyes. Something about the fact that he was too consumed to take care last time makes me even crazier with need. Once upon a time, I’d fantasized about having Tristan’s babies, being his wife, sharing every experience life would give us. I could have never expected this life…

  “I told you, I’ve got it covered. For the next three years, actually,” I admit, thanks to the contraceptive implant hidden in my arm. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

  He exhales roughly. “Sounds perfect.”

  He closes in for another kiss, his relief palpable. I share his relief. I fall into it. I cry out with it when he finally pushes inside me. So close. As close as two people can be. I clench around him, savoring our union and aching for more.

  He sets a deep, drowsy rhythm between us. And as the real world drifts away, Tristan fills the frame. The Tristan who’s not the same but somehow more. Ruthless and hardened, he’s claiming space in my heart like a warrior protecting what’s always been his. Our bonds, our wounds, and our memories—they wind us tighter day by day.

  Over and over I breathe his name into the space between our lips. I revel in his weight and the pressure building with each passing minute. I feel every ridge, every slide, every clutch and drag and pulse of flesh. But the higher we climb, the fewer places I have to hide.

  Flashes of violence and death seep in and swim among my thoughts. My mind has become a dark ocean, soothing and rhythmic one moment, angrily revealing its monsters the next.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to force the visions away.

  “Isabel.”

  I open my eyes to Tristan’s. I don’t have to say anything. One shared look, and he seems to know.

  “Look at me… Stay with me…”

  I gasp when he roots deeper. The breathtaking sensation and his lust-painted features command my attention, magnetize all my roaming thoughts to the physical act and the invisible vibrations around my heart, where he’s owning me a little bit more.

  Look at me. Say my name. He murmurs the demands against my mouth. Takes me up and away, closer to the peak.

  Trust me. Be with me. Remember me, Isabel…

  I do, I am, and I could never forget…

  My eyes drift closed. I’m shaking again. So close… He’s all cool ocean, but my heart knows the monsters lurk on the other side of this bliss.

  He takes my hands and clutches them tightly above my head.

  He kisses me hard. Rocks into me harder. Takes and takes and forces me to take too. He drains my thoughts until all that’s left is the raw feeling of our bodies crashing together.

  “Let go, Isabel,” he says. “Let go with me.”

  And then I do.

  TRISTAN

  I haven’t existed the past three years without the pleasure of female company from time to time. I never walked away feeling anything more than basic physical satisfaction, though. Nothing like how I feel now.

  I’m sitting in the chair where I found Isabel holding my gun in her lap not that long ago. She’s asleep now, curled up like a baby bird in a warm nest of soft, white hotel sheets. I’m completely preoccupied with her and this odd afterglow. Utterly blown away by this bone-deep compulsion I have to build a bulletproof wall around her and fight this war for the rest of our lives if it means keeping her safe forever.

  Every day, I find myself needing her more and seeing it mirrored in her eyes. A runaway train I have no hope of slowing down.

  She doesn’t know it yet, but I’m going to find the motherfucker who killed her friend and put his name in my book along w
ith anyone else who dares come after her. Chances are high I may already know who it is.

  Jay’s the key. Jude. Whatever name she uses, whatever bullshit organization she hides behind, she’s the heartless bitch who yanks on Company Eleven’s reins. I’m done running. Done playing this game like I’m a mark she’ll have cornered in a matter of time. Fuck that. If Isabel can get to her, so can I.

  The problem is I can’t leave Isabel alone right now. She’s too emotional, too raw. I shouldn’t and won’t leave her to her own devices. One look at her with her hands wrapped around my gun struck fear in my heart that I still can’t shake. If she’s harboring any thoughts of hurting herself or anyone else, she can’t be left alone.

  I quietly open my laptop, track down Lucia Foster’s information, and shoot off a message. If all goes to plan, she’ll be here by tonight to keep Isabel from climbing the walls while I’m gone.

  I pull up a few more searches and retreat to the hallway to make some calls, including one to Trinity House with an inquiry about Director McKenna’s availability this week. She’s at a conference for the next few days in New York. If it’s not bullshit, I plan to find her there.

  I make another call to Morgan.

  “I need to know more about Jude McKenna,” I say when he picks up.

  “Who’s she?”

  “She’s the director at the Trinity House, which I’m pretty sure is a front. In real life, she manages the group I’ve been working for.”

  He’s quiet a moment. “Are you sure about this?”

  “I’m positive,” I say, hoping to convey the seriousness of my request for intel. I can hack my way into plenty of resources, but Morgan has clearances that give him access to significantly more. “If I can get to her, I can figure out who put the hit out on Isabel.”

  “Give me a minute,” he mutters.

  I hear a door close through the phone and then the clicking of keys.

  “Jude Ellen McKenna. Thirty-four. West Point after graduation. Four years in the army. Two years with the DEA. And she’s been managing Trinity House ever since.”