Crowed (Team Zero #2) - Rina Kent Page 0,10

that the gangster is currently on the wanted list and will be found sooner or later.

I wouldn’t be so sure. If he managed to escape the hospital with infection gnawing at his wound, I wouldn’t be shocked if he’s already out of the country and back to England by now. Or wherever he came from. He did sound very British, though. Just like Dad’s accent.

Dr Bernard found traces of a strange drug in the patient’s blood. It’s nothing like we’ve ever seen before. The substance is toxic, but the man is obviously still alive.

The hospital had to send a sample of his blood to a bigger lab in Paris. Like everyone in the hospital, I’m curious about the nature of the drug.

I’m curious about a lot of things that should be none of my concern.

The tip of my finger glides over the wound.

The disregard for human life in that man’s frozen blue eyes has never left me since that night. If he were in better circumstances, would he have killed me and put an end to this numbness?

I jerk my fingers away from my neck and toss on my back. I have to stop these masochistic, cowardly thoughts.

Papa’s house is a priority. Maybe, just maybe, after I get it back and have it registered as a historical monument, I’ll hire someone like the English Patient to finish my life. Because I’m too cowardly to do it myself.

I nod, my lids fluttering closed.

Sounds like a good plan.

Somewhere between wakefulness and sleep – in which most of my sleeping cycles are trapped in – a creak on the wooden flooring filters through my ears. It isn’t loud or disturbing, but it’s there. Then a growl rips through the silence, loud and aggressive... then nothing.

Charlotte?

Before I can open my eyes, I feel a large body hovering over mine.

Definitely not Charlotte’s.

My lids snap open to be greeted by that lifeless gaze from the hospital. Only now, he appears more focused. Even less human than before.

Sleek strands of blond hair fall haphazardly on his forehead, almost brushing against my cheeks. His eyes are the deepest shade of turquoise; intense, grabbing. Frightening. Someone could drown in those eyes and never find a way out.

The scent of leather and something tame underneath fills my surroundings. He leans closer, confiscating my air to replace it with his hot, threatening breaths.

My pulse skyrockets.

He’s here to kill me.

It’s as clear as the sun outside. If his emotionless features aren’t a clue, he points something cold at my temple. A gun.

I’ll die. Now. At this man’s hands.

Peace falls over me like a calming halo. A sense of relief I hadn’t feel in forever envelops me in a cocoon.

This is it. No more numbness or automatic smiles or pretending to be fine while I scream inside.

I close my eyes, a tear trickling down my cheek.

I’m so sorry, Papa. I really wanted to save the house before leaving.

That option is out of the question now.

The wait for death is longer than I expected. For long seconds, nothing comes.

I’m acutely aware of my killer’s clad, hard thighs entrapping my own, his breaths still tickling my skin, and the barrel of the gun pressed to my temple, but then... nothing.

No bangs or white tunnels or Grim Reapers.

“Open your eyes.” The low, snappy order booms around me and slices through my chest.

What does he sound so angry for? He’s the one who’s come to kill me, not the other way around.

“I said open your fucking eyes, Nurse Betty.” He squeezes my chin between harsh fingers.

I hate that damn nickname. I’m not even blonde.

Something different than acceptance courses through my veins. Something so similar to anger, it’s unbelievable. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been angry.

Aside from when this same man who’s squeezing my flesh refused to kill me back at the hospital.

“What?” I glare at him. “You’re here to kill me, so do it. Get it over with.”

He lightens his grip on my jaw but doesn’t remove his hand. The touch causes heat to rise to my cheeks. I’m self-conscious about the intimate position he’s caging me in. Not to mention my thin, short nightgown. This is nowhere near appropriate.

But who am I to dictate in which position I should die? I don’t even have the guts to do it myself.

I peek at his impassive gaze, trying to read something out of this man.

Absolutely nothing.

He just seems to be waiting. For what, I have no idea.

“Just do it.” I urge him, voice harsher than intended.