Page 15 of Hostile Rival
I’ve worked so damn hard to suppress that version of myself and become the best at what I do. And that means giving up on relationships and anything that could remotely tie me down.
It doesn’t mean I don't need a quick fuck every once in a while, and when the mood arises, I go on a manhunt for a no bullshit quickie. Whether it's in the washroom of a bar or in a parked car outside a liquor store, I get it over with and disappear.
I’m at peace with a no-frills ride. Plenty of men do the same thing. It’s just an itch I have to scratch and a random dick I choose to use.
But mostly, I’ve managed to delete empathy for my targets. They deserve it. And who knows, Matheus could be my next hit.
Focus is everything in this job.
Any sort of attachment is a weakness.
And weaknesses lead to vulnerability.
I. AM. NOT. PREY.
Moving my body into a plank position, I keep my gaze on the mat and ignore the fast pulse in my throat. I’m used to these workouts, so the way my blood is coursing through my veins is his fault. He just stands, watching, and saying nothing. What a creep.
From inside, a phone buzzes. When I lift my head, he’s gone, leaving the heat from his gaze all over my skin. Slowly, lowering my chest to the mat, I draw my hips backward, stretch out my spine, and wait.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I jump to my bare feet and pad over to the patio door, listening to his deep voice as he speaks into the phone.
“It went well,” he reports, then falls silent as he listens. “Some guy showed up unexpectedly and threw his weight around. Things got messy. I handled it. You got the evidence I sent, right?”
There’s another pause of silence. I peer through the glass to find him sitting on the edge of his bed. His spine arches as his tanned torso bends over the top of his thighs. Wet hair drapes his brow. The gun in his hand casually points downward and the phone in his other hand is pressed to his ear.
My mouth goes dry, and my heart does a weird fluttery thing. Well, that’s a first.
Damn, this boy is something else. Shame he’s a Souza camping out in my room, or I’d take a bite.
My eyes wander all over him, noticing the skull ring on his middle finger. Why doesn’t he wear a bloodstone signet ring like his brothers?
“I was there for ages, Dragon,” he argues, his voice thick and defensive. “How the fuck was I meant to know the guy had a cellar? Anyway, what did he do?”
He shakes his head and inhales deeply into his lungs as our commander explains something to him. I’m curious why a Souza would question the need for a sicario. Aren’t they all trigger happy motherfuckers who skirt the law without a conscience?
“Next time I’ll observe for no less than twenty-four hours before making a move. Understood.”
Matheus holds out his handgun and aims it across the room, cocking his head as if he imagines pulling the trigger.
“No, I wasn’t hurt,” he lies, lowering his weapon and throwing it onto the bed beside him. “I had a small cut that bled like a bitch. Which is why I set the place alight. I got the job done and cleaned up after myself.”
I grunt at that and suddenly feel his eyes all over me. My scalp prickles.
Pretending I wasn’t lurking, I nonchalantly stroll inside and head for the bathroom. As I walk past him, he rises from the bed. I catch myself holding a breath for some reason, letting it out slowly when I’m in front of the vanity mirror, away from him.
“I’ll wait for your next instruction, Dragon. Talk soon.” Matheus doesn’t say anything else, which makes me think he’s ended the call. “Is eavesdropping part of your skill set?” his voice rumbles over my shoulder.
“Is lying part of yours?” I free the elastic tie from my short ponytail and glance over at him. He’s casually leaning against the door jamb, his expression blank. “Not once, but twice.” I add.
His jaw ticks. “It’s an insignificant cut.”
“Right.” I laugh. “Paper cuts are insignificant. And in case you didn’t notice, the trail of blood you left is gone. And no, your obedient housemaid didn’t follow you all the way from the Statesto clean up after you. This is the real world where you have to do stuff for yourself.”
“You didn’t have to clean it up.” He counters. “I would have done it myself.”
“Youshouldhave done it last night,” I state dryly. “It’s disgusting and unhygienic to leave blood all over the place. Unfortunately for me, we share this room for now, so can you at least respect the space?”
He stands upright, poker straight, and salutes. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be sure to shine my boots and make my bed every morning too.”
