Constantine hasn’t joined us, which is surprising. This information affects him as much as Nick.
The room isn’t overly bright. There’s a standing lamp in the corner and another on a nearby table. Nick sets his gun there instead of holstering it, so I place mine next to his. “Nick?” I bend over and draw the knife from its sheath. “Is Constantine joining us?”
“No,” he murmurs absently, studying the guy in the chair. Chair guy’s eyes cut to me, and his gaze catches on the knife in my hand. Nick glances over and nods once at the blade. “Good idea.”
I’m not sure why I’m holding the knife, other than it felt logical after setting down the gun. From the way our captive is staring at it, though, and Nick’s blank face, I come up with one quickly.
I’m just surprised Nick is actually letting me participate.
I flip it, end over end, light flashing off the blade as I consider what questions to ask. We might not have the time for me to find out why Isaiah is so intent on killing Nick. What matters is determining if this man is here because Isaiah sent him, and that Isaiah is the one behind the virus.
I want him alive. I want him to give Isaiah a message because I am tired of this game we can’t refuse to play.
Turner’s training included many, many things. Knowing the points of the body that would bleed a lot but not fatally was one of them. I doubt he intended for me to sit in on an interrogation, much less conduct one. He only wanted precision.
But I might as well make myself useful tonight.
The knife is a perfect fit in my hand, elegant and deadly and balanced. I hold it up. “There’s two ways to do this. The first is you tell us how to stop the virus and we let you go. The second is you refuse, I carve little pieces from you until you give us the information we need, and we let you go. It’s up to you how much blood you want to lose.”
For the first time since he was forced into the chair, the guy smirks. “I know how this works. You’ll kill me anyway.”
I shake my head. “Not true. We didn’t kill Demetrios. He wasn’t going to talk no matter how much pressure we put on him, and there wasn’t any point in killing him, either. He was just unlucky enough to get caught in the crossfire. You, on the other hand…” I run the tip of the knife along his thigh. “You have something we want.”
“How do you know I installed the virus?”
Good point. “We don’t. If you can make me believe you, we’ll let you go. We’ll just pin our message to your chest so Isaiah gets it.” I step behind him and place the edge of the blade at his throat. It moves as he swallows hard, his breath hissing out when it presses into the skin. “Now. Did you install the virus?”
“No.”
I shrug. “Okay then.” I shift the edge, feel it bite into the side of his neck.
“Cass.”
I’ve never heard that tone from Nick before. Is it worry? Resignation? Does he finally realize what I figured out? That as long as I’m with him, I can’t leave this life behind so I might as well embrace it?
“If you think he knows something and he’s not speaking up, this is the time to tell me,” I say to Nick. “Torture isn’t really my deal.”
His gaze flits to the man in the chair. “She’s giving you an out you don’t deserve.”
The prisoner barks a laugh. “She doesn’t have the balls to go through with it.”
I do. If he doesn’t say something to save his own ass, he’ll find out soon enough, too late to do anything about it.
He’s an amateur. If he was seasoned by Isaiah, he wouldn’t be sweating so much. I lean forward and speak directly into his ear. “You’re the brains, right? The guy Isaiah turns to when he needs to worm his way past firewalls. You stay behind, safe in your office, while the rest of them are out running the streets and enforcing rules with violence.”
A strangled noise breaks free of his chest. I slide the blade down to his collarbone. It won’t hurt much, certainly won’t bleed much, but it’ll get the point across. “How do we stop the virus?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice has already lost some of its bravado. Then he whimpers, a high, pathetic sound, as the knife cuts through skin.
“How do we stop the virus?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Softer this time, and it earns him another slice along the inside of his bicep, deep enough to reach muscle. It’ll bleed, and it’ll ache, worse than the sharp burst from the initial cut because it’ll linger.
I ask the question three more times, each time resulting in another wound. Down the line of his sternum into the fleshy part of his belly. The outside of his thigh. A shallow nick into the delicate flesh where his jaw meets neck, close enough to vital arteries he screams and babbles out instructions.
Nick dashes out the door, and I reach for the towel on the table, wiping my hands.
“What’s next?”
His voice is tired, resigned, and I flick my gaze over his body. The knife did its work. Blood drips down his neck and arm, seeps through his jeans, splotches the middle of his T-shirt. So ugly compared to my usual work. Ugly and messy.
I finish wiping my hands and move on to the knife handle, gingerly mopping up excess blood from the steel. The nubby fabric isn’t the best for it, but I don’t have the proper materials, and I can’t let it dry. “We send you back to Isaiah. I’m not sure how that part works. That’s up to Nick. But you’ll live, and provided you seek proper medical attention, your cuts won’t get infected. You’ll have scars.” I meet his eyes, the distance between us wider than the few feet separating me from him. I’ve sunk so far inside myself, I feel I could ask him his name, then stab him in the heart and not care.
Nor would I come back from it. So I don’t. I put the knife aside and fold the towel. “What’s his plan? Besides killing me?”
He works up a sneer. “I’m not stupid.”
“You were stupid enough to get caught,” I point out. “Stupid enough to give up the instructions on how to stop the virus. Chances are Isaiah will kill you anyway. You might as well tell me what you know.”
His mouth trembles and clamps shut, and I sigh. “Tell Isaiah I’m tired of this. I’m not going to choose someone to die in my place. If he wants me to suffer, he should just kill me and get it over with.” Nick walks into the room, and I peer over his shoulder, expecting Constantine at his heels. “It’s done?”
“Done. Half the programming is a loss. There’s holes in the firewalls that your dad and Peter are patching now.”
A frown tugs at my lips. Still no Constantine. “You’re going to take care of this guy yourself?”
“Con’s running through the security footage.” Nick unlocks the cuffs, drags the captive to his feet, and recuffs him. “Tell Isaiah to stop fucking around,” he growls and shoves him toward the door. “Back in a while. Text if you leave with Con.”
I make my way up to the eighth floor and find Turner hunched over the terminal. “Cassidy. Water.”
Nice to know some things never change.
Chapter 23
I can’t stop rubbing my hands together. I dry wash them, over and over, watching the streetlights flash past. The dead space inside shrinks as seconds speed into minutes, each block taking us closer to Constantine’s condo and the shower.
I am going to lose my grip before we get there. This has never happened. I don’t let it. Cass the Assassin is only peeled away through ritual. I clutch that self to me and force myself inside, flexing my muscles and stretching my limbs until it’s me, and there’s no trace of Cass the College Student.
It’s like I can feel it flaking off. There’s no beach, no sugar rush, only a shower awaiting me. Nick asked about the beach. I told him no. I need the shower more than anything. If I can scrub away the blood and disgust, I can hold it together. I won’t need the ocean.
My body is vibrating with anxiety by the time we pull into the garage. I tuck my hands in my pockets
to keep them away from Nick. The moment we clear the front door of Constantine’s condo, I toe off my shoes and kick them aside, then shrug out of my hoodie and toss it in the direction of the living room couch.
His hand stills mine on the hem of my shirt. “Cass?”
“I can’t,” I whisper. No talking. Not now. I pull my hand free and spin around, stride down the hall as I pluck and twist at the hem of my shirt. Nick follows me into the bathroom, shutting the door behind us. I flip on the shower and shed my clothes, conscious of how frantic my movements are, how jittery I am. The not quite warm water hits my skin, and I pick up Nick’s bar of soap because it’s the closest cleaning implement.
I can’t scrub hard enough. I want to rip into my skin, shred it, and grow a new one. It reddens and then fades under bubbles of soap, the warm scent of cinnamon drifting under my nose. When my hair falls into my eyes, I rake a hand through it. The sharp sting on my scalp as I tug hard is oddly calming.
The shower curtain snaps open, cool air surging into the steamy enclosure, and Nick steps in behind me. He pries the bar of soap from my hand. “Something wrong?”
Breath stuttering in and out, I take him in, water streaming over his bare chest, a concerned gleam in his dark eyes. Yes, something is wrong, but I can’t find the words to tell him what it is.
Our first kiss was because he couldn’t think of any other way to break me out of the ice. I want him to do it again. But not in the seductive and seductively gentle way he did it before. I don’t want gentle. I want to be taken. I want all those times where he’s held himself back for fear of hurting me.
My step into him, my hand trailing up his body, is the only soft, sweet part of this I’ll allow. I don’t want to reach a point where violence equals sex, where sex is what takes away that edge a hit leaves behind.
Tonight is different. It wasn’t a hit that did this to me. It was the interrogation, the casual dismissal from Turner, the interrupted birthday celebration. It was everything and nothing, and I want to erase it.
I might have gripped the back of his neck a little too hard. I might have nipped a little too sharply into his lower lip. But he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t back off, just launches his own attack. Lips slipping against one another, tongues gliding and tangling, I’m wrapped around him and arching away from the slick, cool tile before I realize he’s stolen control from me.
His hands are busy roaming my skin, fingers dragging over my hip, his mouth swallowing my gasp as he pinches a nipple tight enough I feel the blood rushing back when he releases it. The sting ripples outward, tingling, and I scrape my teeth up his neck, silently begging him for more.
“Cass.”
How is it possible for a single word to express so much? Lust. Worry. Love and need and tell me what’s wrong so I can make it right. One word. My name, and the weight of it threatens to crush me. I sink my fingers into his hair and kiss him. “Don’t talk,” I mumble against his lips. “Just do whatever you want with me.”
He groans low in his throat and eases away, lowering himself to kneel in front of me. Water pounding his shoulders, hair dripping onto his forehead, he tips his head back to look at me, love writ harsh and fierce on his face. That look steals the air from my lungs. We’re past the stage where sex is nothing more than a good time and a release. I’m a fool to try to push us backward.
Somehow, despite being on his knees and the shocking tenderness between us, he knows how to give me what I’m craving. He grips my thigh hard enough to make me yelp and spreads me open for his mouth.
I hit my head on the shower wall. There will be crescent impressions in Nick’s shoulders from my nails digging into his skin. Already hypersensitive, he’s taking full advantage and pushing me faster than I’ve ever gone. I curve my leg around his neck, keening whimpers bouncing off the tile, ending in a scream as he nips into my clit.
“Again. Nick. Again.” Undo me. Destroy me.
He thrusts two fingers into me instead. Rising from his knees, fingers buried deep inside, I taste myself on his lips as his thumb presses down hard on the throbbing bundle of nerves.
The orgasm rolls over me in a quick, fiery burst, and I shriek again as he digs his fingers into my hips, boosts me up, and plunges through tissues still pulsing with aftershocks.
“God.” He drops his forehead to my shoulder, and I want to pound on his back. There’s another orgasm hovering beyond my reach, and he’s keeping me from going after it. “Never get used to this.” He pulls back and snaps his hips forward. “So hot. You burn me alive.”
Then he shuts up and kisses me like his life depends on it, and maybe it does. We become a writhing, blurred mass of limbs, speed increasing with each panted breath. An ache blooms low in my belly, growing in weight and demanding all the while to be fed. “Can you come for me?” he rasps, dark eyes intent on mine. “Like this?”
Can I? The only friction I have is where his cock rubs me on each thrust, and as I bite my lip and strain toward the ache, he tilts my hips and rubs against a new spot. My eyes go wide as the ache expands. He groans. “Fuck. You like that.”
“Yes.” Dear sweet Jesus, I love it. “Nick.” Release is a wire winding tighter and tighter, and I’m going out of my mind. It keeps expanding, the ache ramping higher. This has to break somewhere.
It’s like standing under a wave as it crashes down. It sweeps everything away, sound drowned by the roaring in my ears. I am molten fire. I’m surrounded by him, swamped by him, by what he’s done and how he pushed me under until I am drowning.
Opening my eyes, I blink away the water stinging them and wonder how I’ll make it out of the shower because I don’t have a bone left in my body. “What,” I pant, “was that?”
“Le petit mort,” he whispers. “They got it wrong. There was nothing little about that. I don’t know that I’ve ever made a woman come that hard.”
Somehow I manage to find the strength to move my head. “What did you do to me?”
He lowers me to my feet, taking my mouth in a slow, sweet kiss that threatens to mushify my already hazy mind. “Exactly what you asked for.”
I lift a shaking hand to my hair and push it off my face, catching Nick’s hand as he lifts his own. Pressing a kiss to his palm, I lay my head on his chest, uncaring that the water’s starting to chill.
He strokes his hands down my back to my hips, then nudges me away. Picking up the soap, he motions for me to turn around, and I shut off the cold tap to let the rest of the hot water through.
“One of the first things I loved about you was how open you are when we’re making love.” His voice is quiet, his touch gentle as he rubs soap into my skin. “You just throw yourself into every part of it. It’s kind of incredible.”
I peer over my shoulder at him, sighing when he brings his hands around and begins to glide the soap over my breasts. “You make it easy to do,” I whisper. “I feel like you could talk me into anything, and I’d do it because you’d make it feel good.” The statement comes dangerously close to my reasons for going bare with him, and I hold my breath, hoping he doesn’t notice.
He suckles a kiss at the curve of my jaw. “I could talk you into anything, huh? That’s a dangerous thought.”
Tell me about it.
The water’s really cool now, so we hurry through the rest of the shower and dry off. I drag out the hair dryer I bought and never used, plug it in, and use it to get the worst of the damp out.
Still restless despite the sex and the shower, I pull on a pair of sweats and a sweatshirt, find a pair of sneakers, and go in search of Nick and his car keys. I find him at the kitchen bar, bottle of whiskey in one hand and a glass in the other. His keys are on the far end, and I walk past him and pick them up. I curl my fingers around them. “I—” Why is this so hard? I swallow and try again. “I need to get out of here for a while.”
He sets the glass on the counter with a clink and holds out his hand for the keys. When I don’t, he says, “Cassidy
. Give me the keys.”
“I can’t.” My hands are shaking, whatever afterglow I hung on to gone. This is worse, a thousand times worse. The man’s anguished cries echo in my head. We never got his name. I didn’t care. I don’t care. We got what we needed, probably couldn’t have gotten it any other way.
Probably. Definitely. I don’t know.
He leans over and snags the keys, then my hand, drawing me to him. “Come on.”
The street’s basically dead when we pull out of the garage. Nearing midnight, and there’s clearly no nightlife in Constantine’s neighborhood. I spot a McDonald’s up ahead and point. “Can we hit the drive-through?”
He complies in silence, only quirking a brow when I correct him from a Diet Coke to a regular. Back on the road, he doesn’t head west; he heads north. Back toward Malibu. The top creaks on my cup, threatening to pop off as my hands clamp around it. I don’t think I can wait until we get there. Something’s alive and crawling under my skin.
Guilt. It’s got to be guilt. Or regret. The same thing practically. What happened with the programmer didn’t have to. I could have let Nick question him. I should have let him.
A half hour later, I’ve finished the soda, crushed the cup in my hands, and we’re driving past the beach at Santa Monica. Anywhere along here would be fine. The place is quiet. The tourists have all gone back to their hotels for the night. “We can stop anywhere around here.”
“Another couple minutes. I’ve got a place in mind.” He takes the cup from my hands and places it in the cup holder.
“The place” is an even quieter section of beach, backed up to a shadowy stretch of land covered in scrub brush. I think it’s part of a state park. He swings into the parking lot, and I’m out of the car before he’s got the engine shut off. He catches up with me as I sprint toward the ocean.
I’d fling myself in if I thought it would help.
Arms tight around my waist, he pulls me down onto the sand. “Talk to me.”
Game of Vengeance Page 19
