Impossibly (Dante’s Nine MC #1)(58)
Author: Colleen Masters

On the third day of Declan’s stay at the hospital, I find myself once again at his bedside. I sit on the same semi-comfortable chair, my knees tucked into my chest. My eyes are puffy with want of sleep, my blonde hair is gathered into messy top bun, and I wear a pair of black leggings and a baggy sweatshirt of Declan’s. Not exactly chic, but these are dire times.

I can’t take my eyes off of him, lying there in his hospital bed. The mechanical beeps and blips that monitor his every heartbeat sound out like a metronome, ticking the moments away. His usually tan and smiling face is pale, bruised. The doctors still aren’t sure of the extent of the damage to his body—it’s hard not to fear the worst.

I’m just about to nod off into a light slumber when a low moan rises up from Declan’s throat. I jump up like a shot and go to him, sitting on the edge of his bed and training my eyes on his worn face. His eyelids flutter open slowly. For a moment, he’s confounded, lost. But then his gaze focuses on my face, and a tiny smile lifts the corners of his mouth.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he croaks, reaching for my hands.

Relief crashes through me, sending hot, prickling tears to my eyes.

“Hey yourself,” I murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his forehead.

“How long have I been out?” he asks, looking around the room.

“You’ve been pretty sedated for the past few days,” I tell him, a wide smile curving my lips, “How do you feel?”

“Like someone used me as a human punching bag,” he says, “Oh, wait…”

“Ha, ha,” I say, shaking my head, “Always with the jokes, this one.”

“Is anyone else here?” he asks.

“Sam and Kelly are somewhere,” I say, “Probably sucking face, to be honest.”

“Should have seen that one coming,” he laughs, “But otherwise, it’s just us?”

“Just you and me,” I say, rubbing my thumb against his hand.

“That’s good,” he says, “There are some things…I’d like to tell you.”

“Of course,” I say, reaching to brush a loose curl off his forehead, “I was hoping you might shed some light on the whole death match thing…”

“You must hate me for not telling you about it sooner,” he says, looking up at me guiltily, “I hope you know that I didn’t keep it from you to hurt you. I never thought it was going to come up between us.”

“How did you figure that?” I laugh.

“It’s a long story,” he sighs.

“I’ve got time,” I assure him, “Come on. Spill.”

“All right,” he says, struggling to sit up straighter, “The truth, then. Truth is, I did make a deal with Lorenzo earlier this year. I’d fight in four of his death matches in exchange for a cut of the money he made off of me. The club’s run into a bit of…money trouble, and I needed a way to make us some serious dough, quick.”

“Couldn’t you have just used your own money?” I ask.

“My income may not be quite as disposable as you think,” he laughs lightly, “I don’t have enough liquid funds to do the trick. I’m pretty leveraged in real estate and hurting bad ever since the Vegas market took a shit. Anyway, the deal was supposed to be simple. I’d fight and kill four amateur boxers for the entertainment of some rich scumbags, and the club would make a shit ton of money. But after the third fight, Lorenzo decided to add an extra little clause. The club would only get its cut of the winnings if I threw the fight. I had no choice but to accept.”

“You’ve known about this all summer?” I ask softly.

“Yeah,” he admits, “Which is where you come into all of this.”

“Me?” I ask.

“You,” he smiles, “When I learned I only had one summer left to live, I decided I wanted to make the most of it. I wanted to spend my final months in the company of a beautiful, intelligent woman, showing her the time of her life.”

“Ah,” I say, shaking my head, “So ‘internship’ was never the right word for what you had in mind?”

“Not at all. I planned on bringing an amazing woman to Vegas, having a great summer with her, and disappearing once the fight had happened, leaving her enough money to start the business we’d build together.”

“So the money was always mine?” I ask.

“Yes, exactly. But…there’s something else you don’t know about this little career opportunity I’ve set up.”

“Go on,” I say.

He takes a deep breath, trains his blue eyes on mine, and continues on.

“When I put that Craigslist ad up, I was hoping that you’d find it.”

“Yeah, you’ve said that before,” I reply, “You’re glad that someone like me happened to stumble upon—”

“Not someone like you,” Declan insists, “Only You. That ad was designed for you, Kassenia Bennett, to find it.”

“I…I don’t understand,” I say, my heart hammering in my chest, “We’d never met before our interview—”

“Not exactly,” Declan says, “But we’d interacted before this summer. Earlier this year, you did a very minor freelance coding job for another one of my startup investments.”

“I…did?” I ask, trying to follow Declan’s crazy confession.

“Just a small gig,” Declan says, “You probably wouldn’t even remember it. But your work was quality. One of your emails got forwarded to me, with a tiny little thumbnail photo of you attached. My eyes barely skimmed the message, but that simple picture stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t help but be curious about you—the gorgeous, brilliant, programmer with a beautiful name.

So, I Googled you, like I’ve said before. Found your resume on another freelance website, saw that you went to UC Berkeley. Learned all about your family’s fate from some local news articles…everything you’d been through. My heart ached for you, even though we’d never met. I resolved to hire you for some more work down the line…and then this thing with Lorenzo happened. And I realized that I had the perfect gig for you: the last woman I’d ever fall in love with.”

I stare at Declan, at a loss for words. His smile is almost sheepish as he goes on.

“I wrote up a job description I knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse. I even threw in the Eastern European detail to make sure you applied. That must have seemed a bit strange, right? But I put two and two together when I saw your first name and that you’d listed Russian and Croatian as fluent languages on your resume. I thought I’d go through the motions of interviewing and hiring you, set you up in Vegas, show you the time of your life after all the sadness you’ve endured, and leave you with $250,000 in the bank to launch your business. I made sure that you knew you weren’t allowed to fall in love with me, so that you wouldn’t be hurt by my death. But then…”