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His smile deepens and he accepts the glass from me, carefully turning it so he can put his mouth where mine had been. “I’ve been saving the best…” His smile slips. “For you.”
It makes me think he was going to say something else, maybethe best for last. I crawl closer to him, settling between his feet so I can wrap my hands around his thigh above his knee. He lifts his other leg and hugs me between his thighs, cradling me against his body.
Heaven. Except for the heaviness I sense from him.
Every once in a while, he offers his glass and I drink a little more. The wine is so strong and rich, it heats my stomach. It pools there, slowly heating my blood. Or maybe that’s just sitting between the Master’s thighs. But I can’t let my libido distract me. Not yet.
“The first night, you encouraged my questions.”
He strokes my hair, spreading it out across his lap. “I did. I still do.”
I tip my head around so I can see his face. “Anything?”
He smiles faintly. “Anything you actually want to hear the answer to. I can’t promise to answer, but if I do, it will always be the truth. I’ll never lie to you, kitten. I just hope you don’t hear something that changes your mind about me.”
“Never.”
He doesn’t respond but simply looks at me as if he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You used to work for Blake, who hires assassins.” I watch his face for any little flicker or tenseness, but he doesn’t move a muscle. “Were you an assassin?”
“Yes.”
“You work for Doctors Without Borders now.”
“Yes.”
“Is that it?”
He shakes his head slowly, watching my face as carefully as I watch him.
I swallow hard and force the words out before I change my mind. “You told the deputy you started your own side business after you left Blake. That’s why you can’t always tell me where you are.”
“It’s not safe,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’ve already risked you horribly, and for that, I’ll never forgive myself. All I can do is keep you as safe as I can at all times. Even if I’m not here. And to keep you as separate from that side of my life as much as possible. But I’m afraid we’re as entangled in my mess as you are with me right now.”
I tighten my grip on his thigh and press more of my body against his. “Good.”
With his shirt gone, part of the tattoo on his lower stomach is visible above his waistband. This would be the perfect chance for me to get a good long look at it. I reach up and unbutton his jeans. His eyes burn, but he doesn’t say a word. I open his jeans and trace my finger over the ink. Where the tats on his shoulder are more traditional and masculine, the number two inked in his skin here is graceful and elegant in black. Red drips from it, though, pooling around the base as if it bleeds. A raven sits on the upper curve of the number, its eyes red and looking straight at me. It’s creepy, yet beautiful.
“When did you get this one done?”
He inhales, and I suddenly realize he wasn’t breathing before, or at least he kept his breathing so shallow and soft I hadn’t heard it. “When my father died.”
“When you were seventeen?”
He shakes his head. “Much, much later than that.”
That makes sense because the tat doesn’t have a lot of age to it. The colors are still rich and vibrant, where the ones on his shoulder seem a little faded. I check his face to try to gauge his emotions, whether I should keep pushing about his family or not. What I know of his family history is horrible, and I don’t want to hurt him by forcing him to remember the past.
“He hid from me for a long time, using different aliases, keeping his kill count low and scattered to prevent me from tracking his movements. But I was determined to find him after he killed my mother. It took me nearly fifteen years, but I finally did. He wanted me to find him.”
He combs his fingers through my hair. “He’d been dropping me hints about other serial killers for years. When I killed the first one, I guess he decided to use me to eliminate the competition. As a result, I made quite a name for myself in the FBI. But the real test was finding him. He thought he was grooming me to inherit his evil, but I killed him instead. Maybe he still won, because he got what he wanted. A killer for a son.”
The cold, hard tone of his voice makes me shiver. “So what does the two mean?”
“‘The Second Coming.’ It’s about judgment, an apocalypse more horrible than anyone could imagine. I judged him. I ended him. And I continued the work that the hunt for him carved into my soul. I am judgment. I am death. Too dangerous, too violent, too bloodthirsty, a serial killer’s son loosed upon the world.”
I lean up and press my mouth to the tattoo, trying to take away some of the pain that cuts through his voice.
