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Chapter nineteen
Lyla
Shewassore,so fucking sore between her legs every step was making her excruciatingly aware of how deep, how thick he had been inside her. It wasn’t like she hadn’t had injuries to her vagina before; she had. But this soreness, though it hurt, sent warmth coursing through her veins.
She turned the coffee machine on for him, knowing he liked black coffee in the morning, and made tea for herself, wincing as she walked over the counter to get the mugs, her eyes going to see him working out in the garden, his torso gleaming with a thin sheet of sweat, his muscles bunching and releasing as he moved through some kind of martial art routine.
She ogled him as she did in the mornings while the beverages got ready, watching as he finished up and came inside, the force-field of his presence making her nerve-endings stand on attention. It wasn't like the other mornings. She had felt him now, let him in now, and there was an intimacy between them. Usually, he greeted her and went for shower.
This morning, he rounded the counter without stopping, gripped her jaw, and gave her a hard, thorough kiss that left her clutching his arms.
He pulled back, raking a dark, possessive look over her clad in his t-shirt, before coming to a stop on her lips again. His thumb moved over it, igniting little sparks under his touch. With another kiss, he stepped back and went to his coffee.
"We didn't use any protection." He pointed out as he poured in his mug.
Lyla steadied herself against the counter, watching him operate the coffee machine, and felt some of the cheer leave her. "I can't get pregnant," she told him. "After I ran away… there was too much bleeding. They had to operate on me."
He studied her quietly. "And how do you feel about that?"
His favorite question to ask her—how she felt about anything. She shrugged. "I was kind of grateful I wouldn't bring another child into that hell."
He didn't say anything for a long minute. "You know, it was your determination to save him that night that fascinated me. The way you trusted me to take him even though I could see it was killing you. It intrigued me."
Her heart thud with the memory. "How is he?"
"Good," he told her, finally giving her some answers. "He's with… a couple that loves him."
Heart full, she swallowed. "That's good. Thank you."
He didn't say anything to that, and shaking the subject off, she asked the one question that had pestered her for a while. “How did you get so much money?”
He turned to give her a look, before picking up his mug. “It's a long story."
She turned off her tea. "I have time."
His lips twitched. "When I was fifteen, I burned down the orphanage I’d been at, killing about eight adults inside. The fire was a big deal back then. Three of the adults had been members of The Syndicate.”
She drew in a sharp breath, in the middle of pouring. “What did they do?”
A dark smile slashed his lips. “Made me an assassin. I had nothing against them at the time, and they knew I had no problem killing. So they sent me to hunt their targets. That made me a lot of money, which I later invested in different businesses, made even more money.”
He took a sip of his drink, leaning against the counter, head titled to one side as he watched her process the information.
“Are you involved in the... sex slaves?” she asked, hesitating, hoping he wasn’t, but not understanding how she’d feel if he was.
To her great relief, he shook his head. “It’s too messy and too much teamwork. I’m more of a lone hunter.”
She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t comment about the morality of it. His sense of morality was skewed, and she knew it.
“So, when did you leave them?” she wondered, curious about how a fifteen-year-old had become such an assassin.
“Once I had access to their little secrets. About four years after I started working for them.”
“Why?”
“I decided to take them down.”
He stated it so casually, so simply, Lyla shook her head in disbelief that a nineteen-year-old boy could have even thought it. “You decided to take them down?”
