The Negotiator

by Gadziala, Jessica

  So I took a cool shower, then I slid into one of the silk pajama sets that was in the original haul that had been left for me.

  Christopher, among many other things, seemed to have pretty impeccable taste in ladies nightwear.

  See, I was a simple woman. I tended to pass out in an old, ratty tee and panties. That was just my usual outfit. If I was on a job with the guys, I would throw on a pair of yoga pants or something, but I didn't actually have a separate wardrobe for sleeping.

  But the items that Christopher had picked out had me reevaluating that stance.

  They weren't even that fancy, really. They were tank top and short sets in soft, feminine colors—pinks, cremes, light blues, sage green, a pale yellow—and trimmed in lace that was somehow soft, not scratchy.

  They made me feel soft and sexy and put together. Like I could serve a dinner party in the middle of the night and feel like I looked perfectly presentable.

  I had maybe added half a dozen new ones of them to my rider I had given to Christopher.

  Hey, he offered.

  I was going to take full advantage of it.

  I was even considering getting myself a pair of kitten-heeled, furry-topped "No, Officer, I Didn't Kill My Rich Husband" shoes to complete the look.

  I mean, if you were going to do it, you might as well do it up.

  I heard Christopher come in almost two hours after he left. I was even weak and pathetic enough to move to the end of my bed to listen as he went into his room, as the telltale sound of his shower turned on.

  I couldn't help but wonder if he thought about me while in there. I had thought about him. But I hadn't been able to get the mood right to relieve the tension myself. Which only managed to leave me feeling even more needy than I had been after the kiss.

  The mental image of him naked in the shower with his hand around his cock was not helping the situation.

  "Ugh," I grumbled, throwing myself back on the bed in a full-on starfish position, taking a few deep breaths, trying to remind myself of all the reasons this was a terrible idea.

  Gunner would tease me.

  Quin would want me to get counseling.

  Bellamy and Fenway would think they did me some kind of favor.

  There were plenty of reasons, but none of them seemed quite convincing enough.

  The thing that kept me in bed was the idea of Christopher being a one-and-done kind of guy. And then being trapped in his house with him until God-knew when.

  I did not handle that sort of awkwardness well.

  One-and-done was fine.

  If you never had to see each other again.

  I don't know how I managed to fall asleep with my head spinning like it was, but unconsciousness eventually claimed me, taking me out of my misery.

  I wasn't sure what was happening at first.

  My dreams were clinging to me, refusing consciousness, trying to keep me under in that floating nothingness.

  The weight could be excused as that battle between awake and asleep.

  The hand over my mouth, though?

  Yeah, not so much.

  My eyes sprang open, seeing nothing but inky blackness, making me want to curse Christopher for not having a TV in his guest room to fall asleep to, to provide a little bit of light in the darkness.

  The hand was big.

  And for a moment, I wondered if it was Christopher, if he had climbed in bed with me, and was just trying to wake me up without me screaming and alerting the whole household.

  But the weight was too heavy for him, the palm too sweaty.

  I couldn't imagine Christopher's palm ever getting sweaty.

  My second thought was Chernev.

  He was stockier.

  Unsure enough about himself to have sweaty palms.

  But I had seen Christopher's security team; the way they lined the steps which was the only way to the top of the hill, to the house.

  No way could he have snuck in unseen.

  Which made my mind flash back to something I had all but overlooked about the call with Chernev.

  His phone had buzzed.

  He had looked.

  Then he had gotten up to look out the window.

  Someone had tipped him off.

  I hadn't thought much of it at the time. He had men who worked for him. No doubt they were stationed around.

  But what if it hadn't been one of his men?

  What if it had been one of Christopher's?

  What if that was how Chernev had known how to get a hold of Alexander, how he had managed to get out right before Christopher charged in to rescue his brother?

  It seemed unfathomable.

  Christopher was, by all accounts, a good and fair and generous employer. His men seemed as loyal as they came.

  But I knew better than anyone just how far desperate men would go to get a little more money.

  Just about any man—or woman—could be bought. If the pockets were deep enough. If the promises were grand enough.

  And, hey, I probably looked like an easy target, didn't I? A sitting duck in a bedroom. A girl who walked around in sundresses and cooked meals with the housekeeper.

  I seemed soft to an outsider.

  I looked weak enough to be easy work.

  But I wasn't soft.

  I damn sure wasn't weak.

  And I would fight tooth and fucking nail before I ever went easily.

  My knees were pinned by the man's weight to the side on the bed, making the usual buck up and throw off move impossible.

  His sheer size compared to mine made trying to break free unlikely.

  But I wasn't above being a stereotypical girl and using my nails.

  Just as a free hand had the audacity to reach down and close over my breast through my tank top, my arm flew up, nails slashing across what felt like a neck.

  There was a hiss, but my aim had been off.

  It gave me a good gauge for where his face was, though.

  His other arm moved out, snagging my wrist, yanking it up high enough for my shoulder to scream, pinning it to the bed.

  No amount of tugging could get me free.

  I had one more hand, one more chance.

  To do enough damage to make him release my throat, so I could scream.

  I didn't like not being able to take him down myself, but I understood that it was stupid to not take an opportunity to increase your odds if you had it, no matter how much a part of you chafed at the idea of being saved by anyone.

  Saved was better than dead, that was for damn sure.

  I tried to suck in a steadying breath, curling my fingers of my left hand in a tight fist, aiming, and striking out.

  Even if you didn't make perfect contact, a fist to the throat got quite the reaction.

  Choking.

  Gasping.

  An involuntary urge to grab one's neck.

  His hand left my mouth.

  My breath sucked in.

  And I did what I had to do.

  I screamed for help.

  "Christopher!"

  Pain exploded across my cheekbone as my attacker recovered, as he struck out.

  It was over.

  Even I knew it was over.

  Surely he knew his boss well enough to know that as well.

  But his weight pressed me to the bed still as his hands tried to stop my flailing, slapping, scratching.

  I hadn't even heard the footsteps, the door flying open.

  The next thing I was aware of was the light flashing on, nearly blinding me with its intensity for a moment.

  Until my eyes adjusted.

  And I could see my attacker.

  Niko.

  Niko?

  Even as the realization started to sink in, Christopher's hand was grabbing the back of his suit jacket, yanking back hard enough to throw the man backward, releasing his weight from me.

  Instinctively, I scrambled up the bed, arm shooting out, grabbing for something, anything that could be used as a weapon.

&
nbsp; In case Niko wasn't acting alone.

  In case more of the men proved disloyal.

  I should have been watching the door for that possible threat, but I found myself unable to look away from a shirtless Christopher as he yanked up the struggling body of one of his, slamming him back against the wall, Niko's head whacking against the trim surrounding the window.

  What struck me the most as the two men came to blows was the silence from Christopher.

  I imagined if I found a man who was supposed to be loyal to me doing something awful, I would be screaming at him while I kicked his ever-loving ass.

  Not Christopher.

  And if anything, his silence was much more chilling.

  His silence.

  And his violence.

  There was nothing restrained or merciful about him as he grabbed Niko by the throat and slammed his head back into the window, glass shattering, blood spurting out, splashing across Christopher's face as Niko cried out.

  There was no mercy, either, when Christopher yanked him forward, then slammed him back against the wall.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Three.

  Four.

  Five.

  Ten times.

  Niko's cries died down as his skull crushed in, as the life left his body.

  "Christopher," Alexander's voice called, a little hesitant, a little uncertain, dragging my attention over to where he was standing in the hall, a gun in his hand, several of Christopher's other men behind him, faces all wearing identical masks of shock.

  Whether that was because of Niko's betrayal, or Christopher's reaction to it—was anyone's guess.

  "Christopher," Alexander tried again, voice a little more forceful, dragging his brother's attention away from the corpse he was still holding on its feet against the wall, rage blinding him to the fact that it was over. When he got his brother's attention, his chin jerked over toward me on the bed, making Christopher's gaze follow, landing on me.

  The blind rage in his eyes slipped away, seeming to see me for the first time.

  The tension slipped out of his shoulders. His heaving chest expanded as he sucked in a greedy breath, slowing his breathing, bringing him back down inside his body.

  His blood-soaked body.

  Worry filled his dark eyes as he took a few tentative steps toward the bed, gaze moving up and down me, seeking injuries.

  There were none, not really.

  Not external ones.

  The internal ones? Well, they were old, scabbed over. This had just ripped some of the scabs off, leaving me raw and bleeding.

  Not that I showed him that, though. At least, I hoped not. But, somehow, I felt my lower lip quiver.

  I was not a lip-quivering type of person.

  But it quivered.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked, voice so soft I could barely hear it from several feet away.

  My head shook, words caught in my throat.

  "You're sure?" he asked, moving to take a step forward, only to be stopped by a hand on his shoulder.

  Turning, he found his brother—calmer, more focused. "You're covered in blood," he told Christopher, voice low, but it carried in the quiet room.

  Christopher's gaze moved over himself, then went over toward the disfigured body of Niko, then back to his brother. "Put her in my room," he demanded. "Don't leave her," he added, moving past the bed. "Deal with this," he barked to Laird in the doorway as he closed himself in the bathroom, the water immediately sputtering on.

  "Miller, hey," Alexander called, making me realize I had been watching the closed bathroom door for long enough that Alexander had been able to approach the side of the bed without me noticing. "Hey, come on," he demanded, reaching out toward me, then yanking his hand back when I jolted away, holding out his palm instead. "It's alright," he told me, voice hushed. "Come on. Let's get out of here," he offered, motioning toward the door.

  My body responded to the command even as my mind felt slow and sticky, making it hard for any thoughts to come to the forefront.

  I noticed as I made my way toward the door that Christopher's men had moved inside, creating a sort of human wall in front of Niko's lifeless body.

  His hand was visible, though.

  The same one that had been over my mouth.

  I stared at it for long enough that Laird moved in front of it as Alexander finally grabbed my wrist, urging me forward, out into the hall, across it, then into Christopher's room, closing the door as he flicked on the light.

  Much like his study, this room was undeniably masculine. The bed was King-sized and covered in black sheets and a comforter, everything askew from Christopher jumping out of it when I had screamed.

  There were doors to each side of the dark wood nightstand. Closet and bathroom.

  "Miller, are you alright?" Alexander asked, losing some of the calm certainty he'd had back in my room, sounding a lot more like the boy he still was. A boy who had a gun in his hand without hesitation during a tense situation. A boy who seemed perfectly comfortable with it there still.

  I gave him a tight nod, making my way toward the bed, sliding in, pulling the covers up over my body, curling into a tight ball, taking a deep breath, and breathing in the scent that always clung to Christopher—a spicy cologne or body wash, something distinctly masculine, but not overpowering.

  Comforting.

  I found it comforting as my mind raced back and forth from past to present, as it became hard to tell the two distinct incidents apart in my head, making my stomach roll, making me both sweaty and cold at once.

  I could feel Alexander's gaze flicking to me anxiously as he waited for an adult to come and take his place, clearly not equipped to handle this situation on his own.

  Eventually, what seemed like a lifetime later, the door clicked open.

  Nothing was said, but you could practically hear the silent conversation between brothers, Christopher motioning for Alexander to go back to his room, Alexander jerking his chin toward the lump of me beneath the covers.

  Feet shuffled, the door clicked, this time locking.

  The bed depressed in front of me as Christopher slid in, flicking off the light, gently reaching for me, pausing, waiting to see if there was some resistance, before curling me into him, his arms going tightly around me.

  "I'm fine," I insisted, some primal part of me needed to say, even if it didn't feel very true.

  "Okay," he agreed, though he clearly didn't believe me as his hand moved upward, stroking through my hair.

  Slowly, I seemed able to be able to separate the two very distinct events in my life. The long passed one, from the more recent one. The division allowed clarity to come through, to let me process what had happened without things getting muddled in my head.

  All things considered, it hadn't been the worst thing that had happened to me. Hell, it might not have even been in the top five. My life had been hard and rough when I was young. It got dangerous as I got older.

  Things had happened.

  Sometimes they were ugly things.

  Sometimes I walked away from them bloodied.

  Sometimes I had to be carried away from them.

  That was the life I had led.

  And with a few deep breaths, I was able to realize that the event back in my room was likely number seven on the list of shit things I had dealt with in my life.

  Not great.

  But not enough to send me into a bad spiral either.

  Sometimes—most times—it was harder, took much longer to sort everything out in my adrenaline-fueled system, my swirling head. And that was with my trained coworkers around me, people who had been through many of their own traumas, who knew how to handle me and mine.

  So one had to come to the conclusion that this quick switch back to rational thinking had a hell of a lot to do with the man whose arms were around me, whose warm body was surrounding me, whose heartbeat was slow and steady and right by my ear.

  I had never really been a touchy-
feely person. With friends, with anyone really. I definitely had never been much of a snuggler. I couldn't even tell you why. It just never felt like something I wanted. That level of intimacy, I guess.

  There was no denying that, in this moment, with this man, it was comforting; it was helping my mind and body work through some shit.

  And, well, it felt pretty damn good actually.

  I was starting to see what all the fuss was about.

  I liked it enough that I was actually putting off telling him I was feeling better because the way his fingers sifted through my hair was almost narcotic. I was pretty sure it would cure all forms of insomnia in a matter of minutes.

  Eventually, though, I knew I had to speak, had to let him know I wasn't traumatized for life, and wasn't blaming him for the situation. And, well, the man needed to get back to work too, didn't he? And as someone who had been in many sticky situations, who worked for a company that specialized in them, I fully understood how imperative those first few minutes, or even first few hours, could truly be.

  I needed to let him be the boss that he was.

  And I needed to stop clinging to him for more reasons than I cared to think about.

  "I'm alright," I told him after sucking in a deep breath, making sure I slipped a little confidence into my voice. "Really," I added when he snorted. "It didn't even make the top five," I added.

  "Top five what?" he asked, pulling back far enough to look me in the eye, searching my face.

  "Traumatic experiences," I told him, shrugging.

  "You don't shrug about something like that," he told me, brows furrowing.

  "Why not? It's true. It's not a big deal."

  "If that wasn't top three, Miller, that's a big deal."

  "Melody," I told him, feeling the surprise flood my system at hearing myself say that, admit that, share that with him. I didn't even share that with my closest coworkers, those people who were like family to me. I didn't share it with the men I slept with. With anyone. At least not willingly.

  "What?" he asked, shaking his head a little.

  "My name," I clarified since there was no way to take it back now. And, quite frankly, I didn't want to. "Melody," I repeated. "Now you see why I hate it so much," I told him, trying to add some levity. Even if I was lying. I actually secretly liked the sound of it. Soft and sweet, lyrical. Things people would very rarely say about me, things I maybe sometimes wanted to hear them say.