Last Breath (Hitman #2)(21)
Author: Jessica Clare

I swallow hard, memories flashing forward. Of a scary, hulking blond man showing up at the apartment with the ugly Yury. Yury pushing a needle into my arm, drugging me. Yury ripping my clothing off—

I shake my head to clear it of the horrible memories, but they lurk at the edges of my mind, waiting for a weak moment. They kept you because you’re pretty.

“I . . .” I try to think of what to ask. I’m revolted, and yet I have questions. “How did you get away?”

“Nick saved me,” she says, and I can hear the love in her voice, and the affectionate murmur of a man’s response nearby. “We tried to find you, but . . .” her voice wobbles.

Resentment flares in my gut. I try to bury it, but it’s difficult. I keep silent, lest I say something I regret.

“They sold you off to someone,” Daisy continues. “And then people kept coming after Nick, so we had to go into hiding. We sent Daniel to find you.”

Daniel, who I’ve treated like shit. Who I’ve used, who I’ve done nothing but cry around. I give him another wary look. “He’s a hit man, too?”

“Yes. He’s one of Nick’s friends.”

“Okay.”

“O-okay? Don’t you have more questions?” She sounds confused, like she’s pictured this conversation in her mind a million times and it’s not going the way she wants it to.

“No,” I say flatly. “I’m good.” And I hand the phone back to Daniel.

He cocks an eyebrow, giving me an odd look. Then he takes the phone back, gets to his feet, and stands again. His voice is low. “Daisy, sweetheart, why don’t you put Nikolai back on the phone?” A moment later, he switches to a foreign language and begins to spit words out. I don’t catch most of it but I hear Gomes and Regan intermixed with what must be Russian. Or Ukrainian. I don’t know either one. He’s talking about me, and in another language deliberately so I can’t pick up what they’re saying.

I clasp my hands together and stare down at them in my lap. I’m trying not to, but the truth is I’m burning with bitterness at my conversation with Daisy. It sounds like while I was sold into a brothel, she was running back to the United States with her boyfriend in tow, the very same boyfriend that got us into this mess.

And because they couldn’t be bothered, I was left behind for someone else to find.

I’m sure that’s not the full story, of course. If I were rational, it’d make sense to me. But I’m not rational anymore. I’m a freakshow who tries to fuck men—even when they don’t want it—and who cries at the drop of the hat.

They kept you because you’re pretty.

My fingers curl, and I fight the urge to claw my own eyes out, to mark myself up until I’m no longer “pretty” enough to be a whore. Although the way that Daniel looks at me after I tried…well, after what happened maybe no one will want me anyway.

I bet if Daisy had been sold into a brothel, she’d have been retrieved right away. Her dangerous Ukrainian boyfriend would have seen to that. But my boyfriend is Mike. Mike didn’t come for me. No one did.

Until Daniel. And I’ve been awful to him.

As if he knows my thoughts have veered in his direction again, Daniel turns around, barks a quick word into the phone, and then closes it with a snap. It’s clear he’s still seething, but he doesn’t want to lash out at me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, my voice thick. “I know I’m a head case.”

He gives me an exasperated look and then heads for the kitchen. As I watch, he grabs a bottle of some sort of liquor and two glasses. He heads back to the living room, sits on the other end of the sofa, puts the glasses on the end table, and begins to pour two drinks. “Regan, you’ve been through hell in ways I can’t even imagine. No one’s expecting you to be shitting daisies right now. But you and I have to work together to get you out of here, okay? I need to know what’s going on so I can save both of our asses.”

I watch him for a moment and then offer something that’s not quite an apology. “I panicked earlier. That’s why I . . . tried to seduce you. I thought you were going to send me away. I thought you’d like it. I’ve seen you looking at me. And I saw the panties you bought me.” Tears pool in my eyes, and I swipe them away. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was just . . . desperate. I didn’t know what to do. So I just . . . acted. Now I’m as bad as the men at the brothel.” Snot’s running out of my nose and I’m a mess, but I don’t know what to do to make things better. I tried to fix things and I just made them so much worse.

Daniel leaves the room and comes back a moment later with a roll of toilet paper, which he hands to me. I blow my nose and wipe my eyes obediently.

“Yeah.” He shakes his head. “You fucked up. Not gonna lie, I’m more than a little pissed about the situation. Listen,” he hands me a glass of the clear alcohol, “truth is I think you’re gorgeous, okay? But I’m not that big of a dick. I wouldn’t touch you because I know what you’ve been through. You’re safe with me. I bought you girly panties because that was what they were selling at the store I was at and I didn’t want to leave you alone for any longer than necessary. I’m sorry if I sent you the wrong signal. I’m not here to fuck you, okay? I’m here to save your ass.” He downs his drink and lifts the glass in a toast. “However fine it might be.”

A reluctant half-smile touches my mouth. I glance down at my drink and sniff it. It smells . . . strange. “What is this?”

“Local drink of choice. Cachaça,”—he says it like ka-shah-sah—“kinda like rum, kinda not.”

“So why are we drinking?”

“Because I sure as shit need a drink after this morning,” he says, pouring himself another one. “And you need to relax. Now, bottoms up.”

I shrug. He’s right. I do need to relax. I feel like I’ve been in panic mode for the last twenty-four hours. I tilt the glass back and down its contents. At first it tastes a bit like rum, then it explodes into something totally different, and I cough. My throat is raw from all the puking I’ve been doing. “Whoa.”

“Yeah, it’s something else.” He refills my glass with another shot of the cachaça. “Now, drink that and then we’ll talk.”

I suck down the next shot of the cachaça and the alcoholic burn begins to float through my limbs. Normally it would take more than two shots to get me plastered, but I’ve got an empty stomach and the alcohol is strong. I hold my glass out for another shot, and Daniel obliges.