“You’re here to kill me,” she reminded me.
“I know.”
“Then why are you doing this?”
Because I’ve had enough of my own bullshit. I’d rather die than hurt you. And I don’t fucking care. I don’t care that it’s not mutual and never will be.
“Shut up and let me think.” My voice was dry, cold. “And if you’ll be a good girl and stop trying to kill me, I’ll let you seduce me again.”
Chapter Thirty
Achilles
The good thingabout lodging in a whorehouse was that nobody asked any questions when I carried a busted-up Tierney into the place with a goddamn knife stuck in my body.
I stopped at the reception desk, flinging a few hundred euro notes in the clerk’s direction, asking for ice packs, a first-aid kit, a shit ton of warm towels, antibiotics, a suturing kit, and pressure bandages to be brought to our room. “Grappa, too,” I growled the final instruction. Fuck if I was going to take that knife out without anything to numb the pain. “I’ll pay double if you bring everything within the hour.” I rapped my knuckles over the cash. They got to work immediately.
Once we entered Tierney’s room, I placed her on the bed and elevated her injured ankle, wrapping it in a cold, damp towel. It didn’t look sprained, just a little swollen.
Thirty minutes later, the clerk arrived with everything. I iced Tierney’s ankle first and popped a couple of Tachipirine in her mouth, making her wash them down with the grappa. She looked like a train wreck—a far cry from her glamorous self.
“When was the last time you slept?”
“Naples.”
Four days ago, then. She was running on fumes.
“Go to sleep.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Pipe down and do as you’re told for once. That pretty mouth of yours almost cost you your life.”
She protested, but I retired to the bathroom, locking myself inside with the grappa and medical kit. I sat on the edge of the bathtub, covered my face, and stifled a groan. I wasn’t going to kill her, which meant I’d need to hide her. I’d deal with it. But first, to get that blade out of my thigh.
I tore my pants off with a pocketknife and examined the wound. Deep, but mainly muscle. I grabbed the hilt of the Swiss knife and took a swig of the alcohol. I had no way of knowing if it cut through any nerves or important arteries. Bleeding out was also an option. I had to take my chances. I grabbed the towels and a disinfecting spray and got to work.
As I slowly pulled the three-inch blade out of my thigh, I asked myself if I regretted the night I opened Tierney’s bedroom door all those years ago and let myself in, voluntarily tangling myself in her web.
The answer was no.
I didn’t regret it one fucking bit.
Even if I died in the next few minutes.
At least I’d gotten to hold her.
Chapter Thirty-One
AgeSeventeen
He hated most months, but December took the damn cake.
First of all, he had to spend Christmas with his family. His mama always stared at him like he was going to kill someone at the dinner table. Like he was inhuman. His fault, really, for surpassing all of his father’s expectations and becoming a well-oiled killing machine.
All he’d ever wanted was to be loved, and he’d been stupid enough to hope that if he just executed enough enemies and carried out enough dangerous tasks, he’d win his father’s affections.
Secondly, and more importantly, he knew Tierney loathed December.
