The Professional (The Game Maker #1)(50)
Author: Kresley Cole

Sevastyan finally turned to me. “I found out five minutes before I walked into his customary haunt and plugged a bullet between his eyes.”

I swallowed, trying to imagine this man striding into the lion’s den like that. For me. “You could’ve been killed.”

Gaze back on the water, he said, “You need to rest, Natalie. You were in shock earlier. Go below.”

“I don’t like below. I’ve never been on a boat like this.” The farther we got from Berezka, the rougher the water had become. Hearing the waves slapping against the bottom of the boat terrified me. Surely it was only a matter of time before the hull cracked like an egg. “I’ve never been out on the water when there’s no land in sight.” Strange, even though I had no visual of the shore—no lights shone in the distance—I still felt like the world was burning all around me. Being close to Sevastyan made that feeling recede.

When we hit a larger swell, he muttered, “It’s not a boat; it’s a ship. And you’re perfectly safe on it.”

“All the same.” I climbed up onto the spacious captain’s bench beside him, sitting thigh to thigh. Maybe I needed to be near Sevastyan because of what we’d been through together. Maybe we needed each other because we’d both left pieces of our hearts back at Berezka.

Time passed. I lost my battle against tears. While I silently cried, Sevastyan stared out into the black.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I woke in one of the cabins, tucked under the covers. I had vague recollections of repeatedly jerking awake against Sevastyan’s side, until I’d gone under for good. He’d moved me? And changed my clothes? I was dressed only in one of his undershirts.

It was still dark outside, but I had no idea what time it might be; fall in Russia meant vanishing hours of light.

I could tell we were stationary. Maybe Sevastyan had come down here to rest.

To grieve.

Boom. Boom. What was that hammering sound? I rose to investigate. As I made my way toward the source, I wondered how it would be with Sevastyan and me today. Would he expect us to abide by Paxán’s dying wishes?

Would I abide by them? Accepting Sevastyan as mine? I remembered how I’d felt at the thought of losing him too.

As if barbed wire had been tightening around my heart.

Boom. Boom. I followed the sound to another cabin. When Sevastyan didn’t answer my knock, I eased the door open. I heard the shower running in the attached bathroom—the booming was coming from within.

As a sinking suspicion took hold, I hastened into the bathroom. I sucked in a breath at the scene before me.

Naked under the spray of water, with his eyes glazed over and his teeth bared, Sevastyan was punching the stone shower enclosure with his battered fists. The steaming cascade hit his chest as he struck, over and over, as if at an invisible enemy.

If he’d been granite under pressure, now he was fracturing right before my eyes—just like the stone he pummeled.

“What are you doing?” I cried. How could he keep this up? His fists bled; more blood trickled from a knot of cloth he’d tied tight around his bicep, his idea of a bandage for his bullet wound. It formed a groove between bulges of muscle. “Please stop!”

He didn’t.

“Stop!” I tore open the shower door and scrambled inside, grasping his uninjured arm with both hands.

He was a killer, volatile and violent, but I felt no fear of him. Not even when he whirled around on me, black hair whipping over his cheek. He was breathtaking. Real. Raw.

Mine, my mind whispered.

That sense of connection to him flared like a blinding light.

Between gritted teeth, he said, “Leave.” His eyes were bleak, his noble face filled with such pain.

I could ease it. “I won’t leave you like this.”

“Why? You don’t give a f**k about me. Not beyond what I can do for you.”

Did he mean beyond pleasure? Beyond his protection? I remembered his parting words after our fight: Beyond sex, anything with me doesn’t appeal to you. “You’re so wrong, Sevastyan.”

He just stared at me. What was he looking for? Permission? Understanding? Finally he moved, placing his palms on the wall on either side of my head, boxing me in.

His star tattoos were at my eye level, mere inches away, beckoning me. I wanted to wrap my arms around him and press my lips to his chest.

Kiss him and kiss him and kiss him until all his pain disappeared.

Tentatively, I leaned forward to graze my lips over one of his tattoos. He flinched as if I’d struck him, but he didn’t stop me. I chanced a brush of my lips over his neck. He was motionless, a statue on the outside, a brutal enforcer on the inside.

I nuzzled the rugged line of his jaw. I smoothed those locks of hair away, then kissed the chiseled cheek I revealed.

When I slanted my lips over his, he shuddered out a breath and drew back. Blazing in his gaze was that bone-deep yearning, the one that called to mine. “What do you want from me, Natalie?”

How to articulate it? I want to kiss you until you forget your pain for a time, want to hold you tight against me because I can’t seem to get my body close enough to yours. In other words . . . “I want you to make love to me.”

Before, I hadn’t slept with him because of the future and consequences. I wasn’t sure I would live long enough to enjoy the former, so I couldn’t be bothered with the latter.

At my admission, his brows drew tight; he looked like he was unraveling.

I asked him, “What do you want from me?”

I gasped when he fisted the collar of my dampened shirt. “I want what’s mine.” He tore the material from me with one rip, stripping me.

I was trembling, bare.

As his gaze raked over my naked body, he couldn’t bite back his anguished groan.

Sevastyan looked at me like a man plummeting toward death would look at a pair of wings. As if I were the difference between life or death for him.

I laid my palms over his star tattoos; he cradled my face. His forehead met mine. For long moments, we stayed like that.

When he took my mouth with his at last, I parted my lips in welcome, closing my eyes as he softly kissed me. God, I loved his taste, wanted to drink in the heat of his mouth.

As ever, I was struck by the contradictions of this man. He was tender, yet carnal. His thoughts were a mystery, but his body told a story—of his restraint: rippling muscles, heaving chest, shaking hands.

With a groan, he flicked his tongue harder against mine, telling me that he was about to deepen this kiss. Telling me that he was about to claim this part of me, with the rest of my body to follow.