“No. I’m not. Or fuck. Maybe I am, but that’s not what I want.” I scrub a hand over my head and stand up, walking to the fireplace and pressing my hand on the wall. She has a right to know who she’s in bed with. And she needs to know I can help beyond killing that sham Honest Gabe.
I turn to face her and she’s sitting on the edge of the couch, her spine stiff, my shirt swallowing her. My shirt. I want her in my shirt, and the way that affects me, the way I feel right now when I’m with her, reminds me I am a man, not just a killer. “You deserve to know who and what I am.”
“You want to scare me away,” she accuses.
“I want you to know who I am.”
“I know you became a mercenary, Rick. You know I know. I’m a general’s daughter. I know what that means.”
“You called me a killer,” I remind her.
“I was hurt. I was angry. I didn’t—”
“But I am. I am a killer. You weren’t wrong, Candace. And your father told you for a reason. Because no father wants his daughter with the likes of me.”
“He’s protective,” she murmurs softly. “He’s supposed to be protective.”
That confirmation that her father told her to stay away from me bites like a bitch. He pulled me into Tag’s operation. He made me what I am right now. I could say that. I could make damn sure she knows the whole story but I do respect her father. I’ll give him a chance to tell her first. And those facts do nothing to wash away the blood on my hands and that blood is a river. Fuck, it’s an ocean.
I close the space between me and her, move the pizza box again and then sit on the table in front of Candace. She looks up at me with fucking love in her eyes. Love. Love that I don’t deserve. Until that moment I’d thought to explain myself to her. To tell her my story, but to what end? How the fuck do I justify cold-blooded murder?
I decide not to try. Her father doesn’t want me in her life. Her father knows what he made me. I know, too. She’s the only person in denial. Or maybe she’s not. That “you can’t just kill him” comment says otherwise.
“I’m a killer and you’re too good for me,” I say. “We’re both living in a moment.”
“Ah,” she says, her voice cracking as she adds, “There it is. Faster than I expected. You’re leaving.”
“I’m not leaving. Not yet.”
“Not yet?” she repeats. “Really, Rick? Not yet?” She shoots to her feet and I go with her. “Go now,” she says, shoving on my chest. “I can deal with Gabriel on my own. I shouldn’t have even told you.”
I catch her arm and pull her to me. “That’s not going to happen, because you see, baby, I was sent here to kill him. And I’m the only hope your father has of staying alive.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Savage
Candace’s stare burns into me, a hot flame scorching me with anger. “I knew you’d hurt me again. I just didn’t know it would be this fast.”
“I’m not hurting you, baby. I’m protecting you. From him and me.”
“You’re a dick.”
“And a killer. You said so.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You said enough. There’s a lot going on here you don’t know about and too much that I don’t know.”
She shoves out of my arms. “I need you to leave.”
“I’ll sleep on the couch, but I’m not leaving.”
“You can’t just stay if I tell you that you can’t stay.”
“I am. I can. I will.”
“Why? Obviously staying isn’t your thing.”
I all but flinch with that insult. “You are.”
“Whatever, Rick. Am I in danger?”
“At this point, I don’t believe you’re in danger. No.”
“But my father is?”
“I believe there’s something your father knows that can hurt Gabriel. I believe he’d be willing to kill him to protect himself, yes.”
“That’s what I need to know. You don’t have to stay. I’ll do what you need me to do to protect my father.”
“I’m staying. End of topic.”
“Then I’m going to bed.” She jerks at her arm and I let her go. “Without you,” she adds.
“Smart decision,” I say, and when she rushes out of the living room, she’s leaves a trail of sweet smelling flowers that suffocate me in loss. Mine. I keep losing the one thing that matters to me. Her. She’s what matters.
Fuck.
Fucking fuck. fucking fuck.
What did I just do?
What am I doing?
I walk into the kitchen, open the bar, and holy hell. She still has a bottle of whiskey that I bought. She never got rid of it. She let go. Not of me and not of the past. I want to roll around like a damn dog in the grass and revel in that realization, but I just made her hate me. Because I love her. Because she needs to hate me. I grab the bottle and open it, guzzling down a drink, letting it burn my throat. With the bottle still in hand, I walk to the drawer, pull out my gun and set it on the counter. Then I drink again before I remove my knives—three of them. Pretty and perfect, they can kill in three seconds flat. If well handled by a killing machine. That would be me. I know it. Candace knows it. Her damn father knows it. No reason to hide my weapons.