For some reason, that makes me want to cry. No one has scars like that without a story. No one.
His tee swims on me, and I feel like an utter fool, the edge of my dress peeking out underneath the hem of his shirt. But I came here with a purpose, and I’m not leaving until I tell him more. So, I ignore the burning in my throat. I ignore the way his tee feels on me, too soft for a man like him, so warm it’s a comfort. I ignore the way my body responds to his.
And I take back an ounce of control. I can either walk around here like a little kid wearing her brother’s oversized tee, or I can own this.
I reach to the back of the dress, ignore the pain in my arm from the awkward position, and tug the zipper down. I shimmy out of it, and the ripped fabric pools around my ankles. I bend and lift it, so I’m wearing nothing but his tee like a dress.
If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it, only crooks his finger at me. I follow.
I read once that in the animal kingdom, a female can’t control the innate biological desire to mate with an alpha male. Instinctively, she knows he would protect her and their offspring
I comfort myself with the knowledge. Visceral attraction to an alpha male is an instinct, not a choice. It isn’t my fault.
“Come with me.” He jerks his chin forward and begins to walk. I’m not really a fan of being bossed around, but I think I’ve pushed my luck enough.
With his shirt flapping around my body, I follow him to the fence at the edge of his property. From here I can see he has a pretty, curved pool with a small waterfall cascading into it from the left. Adirondack chairs line the sunny perimeter, a perfect retreat.
“Sit.”
He folds his bulk into a large chair by the poolside and jerks his chin at a chair opposite him. I choose a chair as far away from him as I can get. Here, I’m in direct sunlight and blinded, unable to stare at his muscled shoulders, the dog tags that swing around his neck, or those washboard abs I would drink shots off of and not regret. Even while staring at his eyes, I’m aware of a faint smattering of dark hair across his chest, the way his waist tapers to faded jeans that hug his waist right where… I swallow. And block out everything I can to focus on him.
I’ve studied neurolinguistic programming, among other brain tricks. If you train yourself hard enough, you can erase bad memories, traumatic events, and replace them instead with a flash of white or a happy thought. It takes practice, but it can be done. In a split second, I mentally block out his masculinity and focus on his eyes, the rest of him bathed in imaginary bright white.
“Tell me everything.”
“About what?”
“About what you need from me.”
I take a risk and push him a little.
“You’ve already decided I can’t afford your services and you’ve already decided I’m of no use to you. So why tell you?”
A slight narrowing of his eyes tells me he isn’t used to being questioned. “Did I say I have no use for you?”
Did I—does he mean—no. God, no. Again, I want to run, and again, I make myself stay before my mind thinks of the very many ways he can use me. “No, sir. You didn’t.”
“Then tell me. Let’s just say I’m curious.”
I know without explanation that the only way I’ll ever get his cooperation and help is to do exactly what he’s asking.
So, I do. I give him the bald, honest, painful truth. I tell him quickly and succinctly, so I don’t waste his time or mine.
“When I was four years old, my father worked as an assassin. My mother did not know this, and it took me a full decade after I put my mind to it to find out the truth. One night, they were pulled from their beds and executed.”
Anyone else would be surprised by this. It’s not exactly a story you tell when you first meet someone. It’s not a story I tell anyone.
I register no surprise in his eyes. He’s heard accounts like mine before.
It’s why I’m here.
“Whoever it was never came after me. We lived in a cramped apartment, and my makeshift room was a closet. My mother must’ve shut the door when she heard intruders.”
“Sloppy work.”
“At the very least, hasty. I spent the rest of my childhood in foster care until the moment I turned eighteen. I’ve been piecing things together about their death since my earliest memories, and I’ve reached an impasse.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-four.”
He holds everything I’ve said for a moment and doesn’t respond.