Bone Deep(27)

He smiled and leaned down to her, his mouth a hair’s breadth from her lips, head angled as if he would kiss her. She licked her lips and tasted him. Want. It was a craven thing inside her.

“I do not like when anyone else touches you. And should anyone hurt you they will pay a thousand fold for it. There’s my truth, Etzem. As your sisters are yours, you are now mine.”

He raised his head, stepped around her and walked into the house.

She was left bereft, the afternoon sun shining down though dark clouds dotting the eastern skyline. She was not his. She was hers.

For both of their sakes, she had to remain that way.

?●?

They had given her a room in the west wing. It was Nodachi’s wing when he was in residence, Rand told her, but Dmitry was two doors down from her. She was similar in size to Bullet and when she’d come out of the shower, naked and ready to step into the unitard, she discovered yoga pants, a sports bra, and a T-shirt on the foot of the bed.

The room smelled of juniper and pine. As she put on the clothing she succumbed to more fancy. His hands had been on those clothes—the same clothes that now touched her body.

As with any other reaction she did not understand, she avoided looking too deep into it. Blade would mock her—tell her that without understanding the reaction she could not defeat it. Bone thought that to analyze it too much gave it power over you.

And Dmitry Asinimov, whether he knew it or not, already held too much of Bone in his hands.

So she dressed and walked the halls, taking the lay of the land and reminding herself of her reason for being here. When her sisters had attached themselves to the men of Trident, this house became a base of sorts for them as well. Out of everything they planned for these last years that had been unexpected. She walked the halls, noting every camera and door, every entrance and exit.

So here she was now, eating Trident’s food, wearing their clothes, breathing their air. Bone placed her spoon to the side, drank the obscenely sweet concoction Dmitry informed her was sweet tea, and glanced around the table.

Everyone stared. She raised an eyebrow at them as the woman named, Carmelita, the cook and housekeeper, began to dish more steak and potatoes onto her plate.

Bone held up a hand and the woman stopped, a huge smile on her face.

“Coma! Coma! Es bueno para tu alma, peque?a,” the woman enthused.

Bullet lowered her head but a smile hovered on her lips. Arrow said nothing but her face was soft, her mouth curving.

“No tengo alma, vieja,” Bone replied in a hard, mean tone.

The woman tsked and Bone was reminded of Juana. “Where is Juana?” she asked, not making a move to continue eating.

“She stays with the babies,” Bullet answered.

Bone shifted, reaching for the knife at her side and stroking the blade. “Does she still hum?”

“She does,” Arrow whispered. “And it is beautiful.”

“Mother—where have you buried her?” The question was pulled from her. She wanted to call the words back and swallow them—they conveyed weakness.

“She is on the ridge behind the house. The sun shines on her all day long, Bone. She is safe,” Bullet murmured.

Mother hadn’t been ready for the mission Joseph sent her on. The little Jewish girl from the streets of Tel-Aviv had taken care of the babies when Bone had been away, hence her name, Mother. She’d never been a killer. She had simply been another tool for Joseph to hurt First Team. Minton had taken the young girl’s life and left Bullet to bury her.

If she could resurrect him she would give up whatever part of her soul was left for the simple pleasure of snapping his neck over and over again.

Dmitry reached for and covered the hand holding the knife, pressing it to the table. “You are bleeding, Etzem. Perhaps it is time to fight?”

“I am happy to have taken him,” she said so softly she wondered if anyone heard.

“Yes,” Dmitry replied.

She looked up at him then and lost her breath. The man understood her in a way few others ever had or would. Why now? She had more to do and could yet lose her life in the process. Dmitry deserved someone softer—someone not versed in a thousand different ways to take life.

He pushed his chair back and walked around the table, heading for the doorway but not looking back. She followed, not glancing at her sisters or their men. She concentrated instead on quelling the virulent ache rising in her blood.

Her body softened, preparing—but for what? The lust on her tongue had a different flavor. It wasn’t the sour yearning to feel endings. It was a lighter, more colorful desire to know a beginning.

Dmitry walked with purpose, his wide shoulders a lighthouse in the midst of her present storm. She was on a hair trigger, unable to suppress the contrasting desires raging inside her body. She followed because she was unable to do anything else.

Fight, fight, fight, her soul demanded.

Do not harm him, her heart cautioned.

She was wary of the differences in her need. The unknown mocked her. She was a killer. It was all she knew, all she had ever known, all she wanted to know. Yet the blue of his eyes and the taste of his kiss urged her seek more.

She had told him earlier she didn’t know what it was to be afraid. Yet each time Minton strung her up on that cliff in Arequipa, she’d known the soul-rending thump of it. It mattered not how she yelled or struggled. Those ropes were her bane and her salvation and the simple truth was it had been fear that locked her muscles and kept her from falling.