because you never know when you might be hooked up to a polygraph. “Her last name is mine on the paperwork, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, it is. I’ll speak to my manager and I’m sure she’ll make an exception. For the next twelve hours, Isabella is mine. I promise to take good care of her.”
I don’t argue that she’s wrong. Bella will always be mine and has been from the start. “I appreciate it.”
Bella
Oxygen.
My lungs are begging for it.
Who knew breathing could be such an arduous task?
I’ve never felt heavier. Like the world is sitting on my chest and I’ve lost all control.
I’m surrounded by death. This room reeks of it. Or something close to it, which is fitting since it’s how I feel.
I try to move or shift or stretch but it’s impossible. Then, like a freight train … it hits me. Why I’m here—how I got here.
And I cannot be here.
Vega’s man Jarvis was in a squeeze that he didn’t know was coming. My contact got word to me when my flight landed in Washington. I’d been poking around and he knew I’d pay for the information, which I did. It got ugly and I’m sure I’ll own the even uglier scar as a souvenir from my first trip out of the Middle East since I was forced to go dark.
I was supposed to be in and out of the country in less than a day on a completely separate matter. One that was risky but nothing more than what I normally pull off on any random Wednesday morning.
Okay, fine. It was more. On the importance scale, it was off the bloody charts. So much so, I was willing to set foot into the western world for the first time in years.
No one plans to catch a bullet and this couldn’t have happened at a more inopportune time or place.
“You’re awake.”
What little breath I’ve managed freezes in my lungs as memories hit me hard.
No.
It can’t be.
I’m not sure how much worse this can get, but that deep voice cutting through my groggy state makes it really, really bad.
I could pick that voice out of a crowd cheering on the World Cup. It’s the same one that caresses my dreams and plagues me in consciousness—both in equal measures.
I can’t help myself. I drag my eyes open and angle them toward the nightmare sitting a meter from me.
He’s no dream and I don’t think I’m hallucinating from the good stuff they’re surely pumping through my veins. I’d definitely be feeling like a crock after taking one to the belly if I weren’t medically snockered.
There he is, in the flesh. As red, white, and blue as Abe-fucking-Lincoln, only he’s not wearing the ridiculous top hat. He’s sporting one of those ball caps Americans like so much. It’s turned to the back, giving me full access to his eyes that are burning into mine, reminding me of everything I’ve tried to wipe from my brain.
Which only reminds me of all the reasons why I’ve tried to forget him, which, in turn, only reminds me why I shouldn’t bloody be here.
Right now, my list of troubles is so long, the man sitting at my side is at the bottom of it.
Cole Carson.
My everything and my heaviest burden. The one who torments me and who I can’t shake despite my brain warring with the stupid organ that always comes out the victor.
Stupid, stupid heart.
If I could dropkick it, I would.
He stands, towering over my bed, and picks up a cup as his voice fills my sterile space. “You’ve been through it. A bullet lodged next to your spinal cord. Internal bleeding. Two surgeries. You’ve been out for almost two days.”
I try to swallow but my tongue might as well be sandpaper. I squeeze my eyes shut, and not only because the dim light burns like the pit of hell, but it also hurts to look at him. When his touch hits my lips with the ice chip he drags across them, I wince. It’s been too long since I’ve had his touch.
The melting water drips over my cracked skin and feels so good, I want more. I snake my tongue out for more relief. It’s as refreshing as a spring, helping me swallow over my raw throat. But I also crave his touch.
“I need…” I hardly recognize my own voice. Not that it matters since he doesn’t allow me to speak.
“Shh,” he hushes and not gently, either. “I know exactly what you need and it’s