“Your group?” she asks without taking her attention from the cotton.
“At The Pit, we were divided into groups of approximately ten. We trained together and basically lived in the same space.”
“Did you go on missions together?”
“No. We went in pairs of two. We usually had a permanent partner.”
“Did you?”
“Not really, but I guess I spent a long time with Celeste.”
Her movements pause and she stares up at me. “Celeste? That sounds like a girl’s name.”
I hide my internal smirk. “It is. She’s crazy but fun to have around.”
“Then why aren’t you with her?”
“Because I’m with you, Princess.” I try to kiss her, but she places a hand on my chest.
“You’re hurt. Stop it.”
“It’ll hurt less if I kiss you.”
“No,” she scolds, going back to dabbing the cotton, not meeting my gaze. “Was she a sniper, too? Celeste.”
I feign nonchalance. “She can be, but she’s not at my level. We had better chemistry on groundwork.”
She presses the cotton to my lip and I groan, but her expression remains neutral. “Glad you had chemistry.”
“Are you jealous, Mrs. Hunter?”
“I’m not Mrs. Hunter.”
“But you’re jealous.”
“Why would I be? Because of the chemistry?”
“Don’t worry. You and I have better chemistry.”
“Screw you.”
“Finish cleaning me up and I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Why don’t you hit up Celeste for that?”
“And have you jealous?” I attempt to pinch her cheek and she swats my hand away.
I chuckle, and it ends on a grunt when my cuts sting.
“Stay still.” Rai rises on her tiptoes so she can reach up. I grab her by the hips, lifting her, and she squeals as I plant her on the marble counter. I open her legs and settle between them so she’s eye level with me.
She looks so soft right now, tempting, edible, and everything in between. Cleaning my wounds becomes the worst idea possible when all I want to do is to lay her down and pound into her until she screams. Then I would bite that pink nipple through the transparent cloth and suck on it until she’s writhing in pleasure.
Rai aborts the image when she diligently cleans my face. She starts with my mouth then moves to my nose. Her fingers pause when she’s about to take care of the cuts near my eyes. “It might hurt a little.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Have you been hurt like this before?”
“Of course. Being shot makes this look like a child’s game.”
She strokes the pads of her fingers over the scar on my chest. “How did this happen?”
“That was because of Godfather—Ghost.”
“Was Ghost part of your group?”
“He trained us. Godfather is one of The Pit’s first generation. They’re called Team Zero and all have weird names. My group is considered part of the second generation.”
She continues to carefully clean my wound. “What’s the difference between the first and the second generation?”
“The first generation are now old men—and women. We’re younger and prettier, I guess?”
She shakes her head. “Is that the only difference?”
“Well, that and the fact that they were drugged. Their loyalty was ensured by a special type of drug.”
“Is there a clear criterion on how to be in the first or second generation?”
“Not really, but the first generation lost most recollection of their previous lives. We didn’t.”
“That’s sad. Are there many of them?”
“Not really. About a dozen.”
“How do you differentiate between them and the second generation?”
“They all trained us so all second gen know them. Besides, they have weird names: Ghost, Crow, Shadow, Mist, Flame, Scar, Poison, and so on. It’s like a den of vipers. Needless to say, it’s not their real names, but even they don’t remember their actual names.”
“What about you?” Her eyes hold mine hostage, appearing darker in the late night. “Is Kyle your real name?
“It is. This is the name my mother gave me.”
“How about your last name? Is it Hunter?”
I could lie to her, but what’s the point? She already knows my plan, and I’m in no mood to keep her in the dark any longer. I slowly shake my head once.
“Then what is it?”
“Fitzpatrick. My real name is Kyle Fitzpatrick.”
She freezes, her hand remaining suspended in midair as the realization settles in.
“You…are you related to Rolan Fitzpatrick?”
“He’s my uncle.”
“You’re…”
“Irish? Yeah. Half, though. My mum was Northern Irish and she considered herself British.”
“Oh.”
“What type of ‘Oh’ is that?”
“It’s an ‘Oh, that’s what the accent change means’.”
“Accent change?”
“You sometimes speak in a different accent during sex.”
“I do?”
“You do.”
“Mmm. I didn’t notice that.”
“Do you slip into it subconsciously?”
“I guess. I shed it away a long time ago, but it keeps coming back.”
She gently strokes the cotton on my skin. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you shed it away?”
“Godfather is British and I was raised with him speaking in an English accent, so I picked it up.”
“That’s all?”
“And I didn’t want the memories related to the accent.” I don’t know why I’m telling her this, but now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. “I did speak in a Northern Irish accent when I was with Godfather because it reminded me of Mum and how my father wanted me to speak more like an Irish person. He was a snob about all his Irish lineage and what-the-fuck-ever.”