A Kingpin Love Affair (A Kingpin Love Affair #1-5)(50)

She stops dead in her tracks just inside the bathroom door and turns to face me, her face a pure mask of anger.

“I saved you because it was the right thing to do. I saved you because, even though you’re a ruthless killer who has threatened to kill me on more than one occasion, I have grown to want you. I have grown to feel for you. Now, saving your ass by killing that fucker has put an X on my back too.”

As her words assault me and her eyes hold a fire so deep, I feel like reaching out and touching it to see if it really will burn me, and it hits me. She made the choice, she made the decision. Running wasn’t even a thought to her when she pulled the trigger.

I smile smugly. I may be a ruthless killer who is deadly with his hands, but I am also someone who can bring my piccolo pleasure over and over again. She allows my deadly hands to touch her body. She sees the good in me, even when the bad overpowers it. She accepts me the way I am.

“You saved me even after everything…” I whisper, not really meaning to say it out loud. I know she hears it, though, the minute her eyes darken with lust and she smiles. She is ready for me again, I am sure. This is dangerous—she is dangerous. Even if I don’t want to admit it, she causes my heart to beat harder and faster, and suddenly my thoughts turn to taking her against the wall again.



*



I keep gazing out the window, pulling back the shades as I wait for Mack to show the fuck up already. He said he would be here soon. Obviously his soon and my soon aren’t the same.

“You never told me about your family. Do you have brothers or sisters?” Bree asks, so I turn around to face her. She has on one of my shirts and a cup of tea in her hands. She let me fuck her two more times before saying she needed to shower. Then I climbed in and took her a third time. She is addicting.

“No siblings who I know of. My father and mother are both dead.” Saying it always makes it seem real again, which hurts far more than the bullet wound in my shoulder. I never talk about my parents to anyone, so I don’t know why I am spilling my guts to her.

“No siblings for me either. My mom got sick not long after I was born.” She sounds defeated as she talks about her mom. I knew when her father came for money what his story was. His wife had died from cancer, so he was alone with a daughter and needed to find a way to make ends meet.

“What type of cancer did she have?” I ask, wanting to take the focus off myself, even if only for a short amount of time. There is a pause as she takes a drink from her cup. Once her lips leave the rim of the coffee cup, she seems to be lost in memories.

“Ovarian cancer.” I know nothing about cancer. It has claimed many people in this world, but I have never taken the time to learn more about any of it. Not that I had ever met anyone with cancer. We didn’t hang around death. We simply killed and went on our way.

“I’m sorry,” I offer sincerely. I am not sure what else to say. What is someone like me, who has more blood on his hands than anyone, to say to a person who has lost a parent to cancer? Even worse, is that I was going to take her father, her last living relative. I know exactly why she gave herself up. I understand.

“Don’t be,” she hiccups. A small tear streams down her cheek. Her doe eyes smile at me as her lips shake. What the fuck? Why the hell did I bring this up?

“I am, though,” I reiterate, moving closer to her. I may be hateful and so very fucked up, but my heart breaks for Bree. It breaks because I know what it is like to be alone in a world full of people. I know how quiet it is even in a crowded room.

My hands wrap around her, wanting nothing more than to shield her from the pain. How can that even be possible when I am the only person in the room who can bring her pain?

“What about your parents?” she asks, smiling. My arms drop from her sides instantly. Can I talk about this with her? Can I tell her how my mother had been killed by the very people who were trained to protect this country?

I feel the coldness seeping into my bones, the walls coming back up. Can I do this to her? Can I make her tell me her secrets without telling her my own?

“I….” I am stuttering over my words. I am actually, for the first time in my fucking life, left speechless.

“My mom was killed,” I state in such an obvious manner. I know she knows that much, but she doesn’t know how it happened.

“I know,” she says calmly as if waiting for me to finish my sentence.

I sigh, taking a step back to sit on the oversized chair. I am actually going to tell her the story. Memories assault me—the crying, the screams of my mom, the fear I felt in her words.

“She was killed when I was eight by the FBI, or at least that’s what’s being said now... I don’t know why, and I don’t know who did it. She was a good woman and was never involved with anything that my father had dealt with.”