Objective (Bloodlines #2)(40)

“Morning. Could you, maybe, let me up?” I ask timidly. He stiffens behind me but slowly releases his grip on me. I hop up, still naked as the day is young, and tag his button-up shirt off the floor. Pulling it over my head I dart to the bathroom. Shutting myself in I lock the door for privacy. My hair’s a rat’s nest and I have little tiny hickies trailing down my neck and collarbone. My lips are swollen and my skin looks dewy. All the signs of a well f*cked gal: yup, check. Little flashbacks of our first round in the bedroom, and then the second, infiltrate my mind. I turn the water on and brush my teeth and hair before splashing water on my face. I’ve never worn a man’s button-up shirt before and somehow that makes being in his that much more intimate. I stare at my reflection in the mirror, wondering if I’ve just taken a step forward or messed up everything.

“Mags?” Bentley’s voice cuts through my wandering thoughts. A soft knock at the door follows.

“I’ll be right out,” I croak. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. I suck in a big breath, put my hand on the door handle and pop the lock. I saunter back into my room to find Bentley sitting on the edge of my bed in jeans but nothing else, holding my pistol and staring at the monitors that line the wall.

“Jesus...” he whispers. I don’t know if he’s mad or upset, curious or turned on. There’s a spark in his eyes that resembles last night’s looks but he’s clearly not happy about my fortress.

“What? This is what I look like in the morning!” I quip, trying to lighten the mood.

“You look good in nothing but my shirt,” he smirks and sets the pistol down next to him. Pushing off the bed, he prowls over to me and pulls me flush against him. “I’ve been waiting for last night to happen for a long time now.”

“I hope it lived up to expectation,” I reply smartly. He leans in and nips my bottom lip before giving me one of the best good morning kisses I’ve ever had the pleasure of receiving. I don’t know whether to get used to this or kick him out.

“Better than,” he offers. “But I have questions, Mags, and you have answers.” Ugh, I’ve dreaded this moment for the last few months. I don’t want to talk. I don't want to tell him anything but I’ve gone and let him get way too close to justify not explaining the behavior and the trailer. Nothing short of oh, hey, I’m insane, would be plausible. I don’t understand that last phrase…

“Coffee, cowboy. Never, ever try to have a conversation with me before coffee,” I offer, hoping to buy a little more time.

“Fine,” he grins. “I’ll start a pot, you talk.” He brushes past me into the kitchen like a man on a mission, leaving me no choice but to sigh loudly and follow. I plop down onto the couch and tuck my feet up under me while he wanders around the kitchen trying to find where I keep everything.

“I don’t know where to start,” I let out nervously. I stare out the small window to the trailer across from me. Ms. whatever-her-name-is is calling the cat that doesn't exist and suddenly I wonder if I’ll live long enough to see dementia.

“Start with the pimped-out trailer, princess,” he says matter-of-factly.

“I want to be safe. Or, I want to be as safe as I can be,” I amend. “The cameras, the locks, the windows and doors and walls, they were all upgrades to give me the illusion of safety.”

“Windows, doors and walls?” he asks curiously.

“Bulletproof. Reinforced. Impenetrable. Well I suppose someone could blow it up...” I trail off. He sits next to me on the couch while the coffee slow drips into the carafe, and scrubs his hand over his stubble before pinching the bridge of his nose and sighing.

“What are you worried about?” he asks finally.

“I’m worried about being hunted down and taken out.” The words sound ridiculous coming out of my mouth. True, but so insane sounding.

“Jesus, you make this painful. How ‘bout this: explain ‘the illusion of safety’,” he croaks, looking sincerely concerned for me and it eats at my soul a little.

“I’ve been found. It’s only a matter of time now. I was foolish to think that securing my home would have any impact on my safety in the end,” I ramble.

“God dammit, Cypress, why can you just tell me the truth?!” he booms, startling me. Did he just say Cypress? My vision blurs for a moment before I leap up and put ample distance between us. I watch his face fall.

“What did you just call me?” I hiss, ready to defend myself if necessary. After all, I’ve been training for this, preparing myself to stay alive as long as possible. He looks alarmed and his hands clench into fists at his sides.

“Cypress. I called you Cypress. You are my mission.” My vision zeroes in on his face. He’s not lying. I’ve befriended Ezra’s peon and taken it a step further by sleeping with him. I have been played in the worst way. I lurch forward, clutching my belly, and heave for air. All this time I’ve been sitting with the devil. He stands and takes a step towards me.

“NO!” I bark. “Tell me where to find him and I’ll go myself, but this…” I gesture between us, “…this is no more.” His features morph into confusion and he takes another step forward, shaking his head at me. I push two more steps back before I turn and run to the bedroom. I grab the gun from the bed, remove the safety and spin around just as Bentley collides with me. We land on the mattress, me pinned underneath him. The gun clatters to the floor. Instinct kicks in from all the training and I start grappling with him to escape.