"You're evil, Mills," he declared, voice sounding pained. If there was one thing I was starting to understand about men, it was that Cora was right; they were happiest when they were fed.
"Go home, Lincoln. We are eating dinner and then turning in too. We will set the alarm. We have weapons. We're fine." He was wavering, but only a little bit. "Quin left early last night too," I told him, shrugging.
"He did?"
"Yeah, Aven wanted him home. He knew we had it covered. Go home to your woman."
Half an hour later, he did just that, while Christopher and I ate our homemade bread that we used to sop up the sauce on a baked macaroni dish I had found on Pinterest to try out.
"What's the matter?" he asked as I stood at the sink, rinsing off the plates before sticking them in the dishwasher, making me realize I had let out the grumble I had felt on the inside.
"There's one very serious matter we have forgotten to discuss," I informed him, voice grave as I turned to face him, leaning back against the counter.
"What's that?" he asked, brows furrowing.
"The steps."
"The steps?" he repeated, lost.
"To the cave house, Christopher. The steps. I made a promise to my thighs that I would never put them through that again."
To that, his eyes danced, his lips twitching up. "We will have to train them to toughen up."
"That sounds like it involves exercise," I said, lip curling.
"Well," he said, eyes going sultry. "There are some forms of exercise that are better than others," he told me, bending low, throwing me over the shoulder, and carrying me off to my room.
He was right.
If I got to choose sex as a way to tone up all the time, I would. And, I guessed, now that I had a steady guy, I actually could.
There were definitely a lot of perks to having a significant other that I never considered before.
One of my favorite parts, though, was the way he reached for me after our bodies were spent, once we'd found our way under the sheets again, pulling me up onto his chest, lazily running his fingers over me until I was too relaxed to do anything other than fall asleep.
"Isn't this cozy?"
I wish I could say I shocked awake at that. That I knew instantly what was going on. That I immediately sprang to action.
But all I noticed right away was a small surge of annoyance, wondering which of my coworkers had disengaged my security system just to sneak in and tease us while we were in bed.
It took an almost embarrassingly long time to realize that none of them would do such a thing.
And that Christopher's entire body was tense beneath me, his fingers bruising into my hip.
My eyes shot open, and I was thankful I had argued with Christopher about needing to leave the TV on low while I went to sleep at night, because it made the room that would otherwise be pitch black light up with a purplish hue, making it possible to make out Chernev leaning casually in the doorway, gaze on my mostly naked body.
I could actually feel the path his eyes followed, leaving a slimy trial in their wake.
"Don't even think about it, Adamos," he demanded as Christopher's body moved ever so slightly, likely trying to get closer to the gun on the nightstand without Chernev noticing.
"Miss Miller," he said, making my stomach roll. "Why don't you slide off the other side of that bed for me?" he asked, and it was clear that it wasn't a suggestion. Since he was presently the only one of us holding a gun.
"No," Christopher snapped, wrapping his arm more tightly around me.
"I'm afraid it isn't up to you," Atanas told him, words icy.
"What are you hoping to accomplish here, Mr. Chernev?" I asked, untangling myself from Christopher, trying to gather the sheets to cover my naked body as I sat up in the bed. "Making him suffer," he decided, teeth clenched. "And you," he added, shooting me disdainful eyes. "Come over here," he demanded.
There were two schools of thought here.
Christopher's and mine.
I didn't have to ask him to know he thought me getting anywhere near the man was a giant mistake.
But mine said that getting close meant I could maybe get control of his gun. Or, if nothing else, distract him enough to allow Christopher to go for his gun and put an end to all of this.
Taking a steadying breath, I decided to opt for distraction.
Stomach rolling, I slid out from under the sheets, getting off the side of the bed, keeping my gaze on Atanas as I moved around the bed, stark ass naked.
"Is this what you wanted, Atanas?" I asked. I couldn't muster the suggestive tone I knew I should be using, feeling a little too sick at this whole interaction to be at the top of my game.
He said nothing.
He didn't even glance my way.
Not even when I stood right beside him.
His gaze stayed on Christopher.
Until, in a blink, it was on me. But only because his hand was on my neck. And the gun was pressing into my skull.
I could hear the hiss of breath from Christopher over the pounding of my own heartbeat.
I closed my eyes tight, seeking some sort of inner calm, trying to conjure up memories of self-defense classes, of sparring with Smith and the guys to make sure we were all capable of escaping several basic holds.
"Knock over that nightstand with your foot, Adamos," Chernev demanded, wanting to get the gun away from him without him being able to pull a fast one on him.
Though I was pretty sure Christopher wouldn't risk it. He had to know as well as I did that if he tried, I would be dead before he would be able to aim the gun.
Eyes closed, I heard the clamor of my nightstand hitting the floor.
"Look at me, you bitch," Atanas demanded, hot breath on my face.
Swallowing hard, my eyes fluttered open.
"You thought you had some power over me, yes?" he asked, pressing the gun a little harder into my temple. "Now I will show you who has the power. Get on your knees."
"That is not going to happen, Chernev," Christopher growled.
"It's not?" Atanas asked, cocking the gun, making my stomach lurch. One finger slip and I was dead. "I think it is."
They were both right.
And both wrong.
I would get on my knees. Hell, I was doing it even as I thought the words.
But I would bite off his cock before I'd do what he wanted me to do with it.
If he didn't think I was perfectly capable of that, he vastly underestimated my desire to never have a man use his power against me again.
My knees met the cold floor of my bedroom as I let my eyes glance around, trying to figure out my next move.
"It will all work out," I said.
Not to Atanas.
To Christopher.
It wasn't the reassurance it sounded like.
It was part of the code I had worked out with him two nights before, one I wanted him to share with his brother and his men in case anyone ever found themselves in a bad situation again, and needed to communicate very specific things.
I didn't think it would come in handy so soon.
And I was praying his memory was as good as I was banking on.
"It will all work out" was a phrase Smith had trained all of us to use to express that we were about to make a move. It was meant to be interpreted as "Are you ready?"
"It will," Christopher agreed, repeating the phase I'd taught him. It meant he was ready. If he said "I don't know about that" it meant there were too many variables, to wait it out, to be safe. If he said "I hope so," it meant there was already a plan in place, to wait it out.
"That's up to me to decide," Atanas declared.
He was too distracted by his sick fantasy, by his power trip to figure there was any way around things turning out exactly how he wanted them to.
I took a slow, steadying breath, raising my hand sup so he would think I was going to undo his slacks, so he wouldn't react to my arms lifting.
By the time he reali
zed my intention, it was too late.
My head ducked to the side of his thigh as both my hands grabbed for his wrist, turning with every bit of strength I had, hearing a hiss, a curse, a crack.
The gun fell from his hand, clattering across the floor.
But it didn't matter.
Because it was out of his hands.
And Christopher was off the bed, plowing into Atanas as I scrambled away, my breath huffing out of me, trying to calm myself back down.
There was a crash as the men slammed into my dresser.
Christopher had the advantage. He was taller. Stronger. More fit.
But Atanas had his humiliation to fuel him.
My gaze moved around the floor, finding one of the guns, crawling my way over toward it, wanting to make sure Christopher and I kept the advantage.
There was a hiss and crash, Christopher hitting the ground just a foot or two from me.
Even as he gasped for breath, his wind knocked out, a hand closed around my ankle, pulling.
My arms shot out, my fingertips just barely managing to grab the handle of the gun as he continued to pull me.
For a split second, I saw the panic in Christopher's eyes as he moved to roll over, so he could gain his feet again.
He could save me, yes.
But I would never be a woman in need of saving.
I kicked one leg over the other, throwing myself onto my back, my ankle screaming at the motion, likely demanding a trip to the emergency room, but that was something to worry about later.
Back hitting the hard floor, I raised my arms, aimed, took a deep breath, and pulled the trigger.
Once.
Twice.
Three.
Four times.
I wasn't the best shot.
But Smith taught me that if you put enough holes in someone, one of them was bound to kill him.
One hit him in the chest.
Two in the head.
One in the throat.
He was dead before his body hit the floor.
Even so, I could see Christopher rushing up and past me, going to his body, checking for a pulse, making sure he was good and dead before turning back to me, eyes wide with worry.
"Are you okay?" he asked, dropping down beside me, reaching to pull the gun from my slightly shaking hands.
"I think he broke my ankle," I told him, feeling the searing, throbbing sensation, the way the whole area seemed to have a pulse of its own as my body flooded it with fluid.
"Okay," he agreed, one hand moving out, pressing to my throat, feeling for my pulse for some reason, making me realize I was hyperventilating. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" he asked, hands already moving all over me, searching for anything.
"I think I have rug burn on my ass," I admitted, catching him off guard, making a strangled laugh escape him. "I think I am going to need to have you rub salve on it. Twice a day. For at least a week."
"Christ, Melody, you didn't need to go get in a gun fight to get me to massage your ass," he told me, lips curving up for a second. "What do we do now?" he asked. "This is not my country. I don't know what happens now."
I found I liked that he so easily deferred to me, trusted in me to handle the situation.
"We need to call Quin. And Finn. Finn will... handle this," I said, waving a hand toward the body. "But Quin needs to be involved."
"Okay," he agreed, moving to stand, going over to the bed, yanking off the sheet and a couple pillows, covering me, then carefully lifting my leg, slipping the pillows under my ankle to get it up above my heart to slow the swelling. "I'll be right back. I need to find your phone," he told me, sounding regretful.
"Christopher?" I called as he stepped away.
"Yeah, kardia mou?"
"You should put some pants on," I told him, feeling my lips curve up a bit. "I mean, I'm not complaining, but the guys might not appreciate your body as much as I do," I told him, watching as a bashful smile pulled at his lips as he grabbed his pants off the floor, jumping into them before finding my phone, scrolling through the contacts, and calling Quin. Then Finn.
"Where's Fenway when you need him?" I grumbled a moment later, still sprawled on the floor, Christopher sitting beside me, fingers stroking through my hair.
"Why do you need Fenway?" he asked. "Because he can always be counted on to have Percocet for situations like this," I told him, getting more upset by my throbbing ankle by the moment, I knew we had to wait until Quin and Finn showed up before we could get me dressed and to the emergency room for a cast and my very own prescription of much-needed pain medicine.
It was maybe five more minutes before Quin came rushing into the room, gaze assessing the situation quickly before moving over toward us, squatting beside me on the floor. "You okay, Mills?" he asked, eyes apologetic even though this clearly wasn't his fault.
"My ankle hurts. And I have rug burn on my ass," I added, watching as he gave me a little lip twitch.
"The doctor will handle your ankle. And I think your man can handle your ass," he added.
My man.
I liked that.
A lot more than I ever could have imagined a few weeks before.
Quin moved away, into the living room, and I could hear him on the phone. Likely with Smith, who would call the rest of the guys and girls to fill them in on the events of the night.
Footsteps made their way in our direction a few moments after that, making me cock my head back to see Finn standing there in the doorway, gaze moving around.
"TV is ruined," he declared calmly. Then promptly walked right back out of the room.
"Where is he going?" Christopher asked, brows pinched.
"Knowing Finn, to get me a new TV. He cleans scenes, but he also replaces things. I'll even get some new sheets out of the deal," I told him, noticing the edge of the one covering my naked body was tinged dark at one corner with Atanas's blood. "And much better ones than the ones I have. It is all part of the package he offers."
"I guess we are officially employing Quinton Baird & Associates," he declared.
"Actually," I said, "I believe I am employing them. Seeing as I was the one to do the shooting thing. Luckily," I went on when he started to object, "in roughly five-to-seven business days, I will be a very, very rich woman," I told him, meaning after he finally cut me the check he kept meaning to.
To that, his eyes went warm.
"Yes, yes, you will be."
"And you will be much poorer," I added, loving the way his eyes danced.
"Yes, quite destitute," he agreed, even though we both knew the money he was paying me was a drop in his very deep bucket.
"You might even have to switch to normal legal pads instead of fancy leather binders," I suggested.
"Clearly, the pain is starting to addle your brain," he informed, me. "Let's slip you into something so we can get you to the hospital. What are you going to tell them happened?" he asked as he slipped a t-shirt over my head, helping me slip my arms into the holes.
"That we were having sex and my leg got caught in the sheets as I fell out of the bed, of course. It also explains the rug burn," I informed him as he carefully slipped shorts up my legs, helping lift my hips so he could settle them into place. "We will be the talk of the hospital," I added, giving him a weak smile.
"You know we could just tell them you got it caught under the bed as you got up in the middle of the night," he told me as he lifted me up into his arms.
"Yeah, but where's the fun in that?" I asked as he walked me through my house.
"Sexual deviants it is then," he agreed, tucking me into the car.
It was right that moment I knew for sure.
I'd been suspecting it for weeks.
But this was the moment I knew with one-hundred-percent clarity and certainty.
I was stupidly, madly, all-consumingly in love with this man.
There wasn't a hint of hesitation in telling him, either, as soon as I realized it.
"Christopher?" I aske
d as he just barely missed the curb.
"Yes?" he asked, casting me a quick glance.
"I love you," I told him, feeling the car jerk wildly. "Even if you can't drive for shit," I added, making a snort escape him as he completely ignored a stop sign.
"Careful, or I am going to tell your eventual physical therapist that you love doing stairs for rehab."
"You wouldn't."
"I would," he told me, shooting me a devilish smirk. "And I love you back, kardia mou."
My heart.
That was what that meant.
I was deliriously happy to be his heart.
And then, a couple pain pills and a cast later, I was simply delirious.
A few hours after that, Christopher was rubbing coconut oil on the rug burns on my ass in a luxury suite Jules had reserved for us, a cart loaded down with half-eaten room service parked beside the bed.
It was an epically amazing night, invasion and murder aside.
Christopher - 1 year
She never got used to the stairs.
It didn't matter how many times she climbed them, she grumbled and cursed them every step of the way. And me, at times, for deciding to live at the very top of all of them.
She was still huffing and swiping sweat off her brow as she came in the front door, dropping the grocery bags on the floor with a huff.
"What's the matter?" I asked, watching as she lifted her hair, fanning some air on her neck.
"The damn tourists," she declared.
Yep.
She was officially a local if she was bitching about them. Even if we technically split our time between Santorini, Zagori, and New Jersey. With some vacation spots mixed in. It still meant we spent at least a third of the year here in this house. Where it all technically started. Much to my delight. And Alexander's. And let's not forget, Cora's.
Slowly, but surely, more and more of the knick-knacks she picked up on her travels found their way to the surfaces of this house. There were new blankets, TVs in the bedrooms, carpets.
The Negotiator Page 21
