Page 67 of Monsters
Benedict reaches down and grabs the bags—his muscles making themselves known through his casual, dark grey thermal—and then he tugs me behind him impatiently in search of our room. Of course, it’s the very last room at the end of the long hallway, and by the time he gets our key to work, I’m already clawing at his shirt. I need him inside of me.
“Well now I see what took the two of you so fucking long to get here.”
Benedict and I jump apart, and my heart leaps into my throat when I see Hayes lounging on the bed across the expansive room in a full suit. His hair is gelled and slicked back, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked like an ordinary businessman. There’s no hint of ink peeking out of his sleeves.
“How the fuck did you get into our room?” Benedict asks, running his hand over his mouth before gripping the back of his neck. “Never mind. You need to leave. Now.”
Hayes chuckles as he stands. “It’s like you’ve forgotten who I’m working with, and what they’re capable of.” He turns to me. “Hello, Evelyn.”
I nod. “Hayes.” Despite his inconvenient presence, he’s starting to grow on me.Maybe.His statement piques my interest, too. “You mean MI6?”
If Benedict was supposed to keep that part of the plan a mystery, Hayes doesn’t show it. He nods, grabbing a glass of amber liquid from the nightstand and takes a sip.
“Yes. If you think an electronic room card is going to stop the most powerful organization in Europe, you’ve got a lot to learn,” he answers condescendingly.
“Yeah, I know that,” Benedict answers, his voice brusque and impatient. “Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should,” he adds, taking a domineering step forward. “Any time you’d like to show yourself out would be great.”
I smile, but instead my attention finds Hayes. “So, you work for MI6andthe bank?”
Hayes nods. “MI6 wants information on the Brotherhood.” He looks at Benedict. “We’re willing to put ourselves in the line of fire to take them down. It’s a win-win for everyone.”
I scowl and turn to Benedict. “Line of fire?”
Benedict glares at Hayes. “He’s being dramatic,” he grinds out.
I cross my arms and once again look at Hayes. “What’s in it for you?” Something passes across his face. His jaw ticks and his eyebrows gather together. He doesn’t answer me, and I suppose I like poking the devil in tattoos, because I keep going. “I know why Benedict wants to expose them—because of what happened to me. Because of his father. But why you? Why risk it?”
He shoots back the rest of his drink, his face totally neutral—practiced—as he responds. “They killed my wife in The Offering.”
Something cleaves through my heart at his words. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, reaching a hand out.
He doesn’t reciprocate. Instead, he takes a step toward the door, glancing at his phone.
“I’ll leave you two alone now. Benedict is going to cream his pants soon if I don’t go,” he adds, chuckling.
“Hey, fuck you, man,” Benedict answers, smiling.
It’s like witnessing the world’s most interesting alpha show off. One minute Benedict has the upper hand, and the next, Hayes takes it back for himself. They’re constantly orbiting each other, waiting to strike, and yet I can tell they care for one another. It shows in the way they look at each other—the way they joke around.
You can trust him, Evelyn. I promise.
Hayes stops by the door, glancing at Benedict with a pained expression. He lays a hand on his breastbone, and then he clears his throat.
“Hayes.” Benedict’s voice is oddly emotional, and I whip around to look at him.
“It’s all taken care of. The van will be outside, as we discussed.”
Benedict nods. “I’ll see you just before nine, then.”
Hayes doesn’t respond. He exits the room without another word. Benedict walks over and locks it, and I can’t help but smile. I look around the room for the first time—reallylook around. It’s large and detailed, with blue and green wallpaper, patterned carpet, and a damask bedspread. It’s much statelier than any place I’ve ever stayed. A fireplace is roaring to the right of us, and the corner windows overlook Princes Street. Matching tartan sitting chairs rest beside a glass table and behind Benedict is a bathroom that looks to be made of pure marble.
“Do I even want to know how much this place cost?”
Benedict’s lips twitch. “Absolutely not.”
I sigh, sauntering over to the window. “You rich people really know how to make someone feel poor,” I whine, but I can’t help the amusement laced in my words.
I sense him before I hear him—his body pressing against my back. His hands rove over me. The permission granted last night was an unleashing for Benedict Martin—a savage awakening. He moves my hair from my neck, placing a kiss against the delicate skin there. People can’t really see us—and maybe the windows are tinted. We’re on the fourth floor, in any case. But the thought of someone looking up and seeing two bodies pressed against the glass…
