Page 18 of Rogue
I yank the drapes closed, then close my eyes.
Steady, Kylie. Get with the program. Focus.
I brush aside my momentary lapse of reason and prepare for battle. Counting how many steps from the bed to the door and then the window. Getting a feel of the space. Taking in the weapons at my disposal, an old-fashioned black phone that’s been disconnected from the wall—so much for room service—the lamp, the ropes, the scarf still on my neck. I test the door. Predictably, it’s unlocked. If I wanted to, I could leave at any time.
But that’s not the game in play.
I settle myself on the edge of the bed and facing the door. Then my wait begins.
Patience and I have never been BFFs. Only a year ago, just prior to being recruited by TORC, I was forced into becoming more disciplined. To stay still, keep my trap shut, and pay close attention to the goings-on at Novák’s compound back in Shelby. TORC training and surviving Hell Camp was a test in itself.
In comparison, my sitting in wait on a comfortable bed in an air-conditioned room shouldn’t be such a grueling task. But five minutes into my wait, I begin to fidget. My gaze falls on the chair and a thought occurs to me. Did he pull it close to the bed to watch me sleep?
Reaching out, I place my hand on the red velvet cushion. Damn it. I should have considered this before my jolly jaunt around the room. No telling if it was warm or not.
Frustrated by my mistake and having nothing better to do than wait, I scoop up the ski mask. Parisians are known for high fashion but this is taking it to the extreme because technically, it’s still spring. A few days remain in May before an unofficial summer kicks in. I toss the mask in the air for a spell. Spin it around on my finger. Run my fingers over the cotton material then turn it inside out.
The mask falls from my grasp onto the floor.
My fingers tighten around the strand of hair I’ve plucked from inside. I hold it up to the light.
Blond . . . BLOND . . . “No. Now way.”
My gasp seems to echo around the room, accompanied by the sound of the crank of the old doorknob as it turns.
5
Shelby
“You want me to throw a knife at your head?” I ask, and just like that, a week’s worth of manning up and acting like I belong here at Hell Camp, convincing myself that I’m going to make it through the daily obstacle of horrors, is shot to high hell in a handbasket.
Jaxson shrugs, then favors me with one of his lazy smiles. I swear it feels as if the sun’s rays puckered up then warmly kissed every blessed inch of my body.
When God created beautiful men, he must have waved Jaxson forward and said, “Cut the line, you stud.” His dirty-blond hair is cropped on the sides with lighter finger-length highlights on the top, giving him this laid-back, rumpled bed-head vibe. I imagine weaving my fingers through it, grabbing hold of him by the hair, and drawing his lips to me. His eyes are light blue like mine. Except his shimmer with a constant glimmer of mischief, which captures your attention and sets your thoughts on the edge of naughty-land. He possesses a lightness of spirit mixed with a spark of purpose that only he holds the secret to. Naughty eyes.
I’m overwhelmed by him.
He knows it, too. His smirk seems to be as big, and as blatantly suggestive, as the impressive package I felt under his shorts that first week.
Is this only a game to him? Is it because he’s a man with enormous sexual appetites and little ol’ lucky me, being the solo female in the group, is his one hope at some fun fuckery? Or is simply entertainment for him, the How Many Times Can I Unsettle Kylie show?
But knives raise the game to an entirely different level.
In my first week of Hell Camp, I shot pistols at a gun range, improved my time in completing a grueling obstacle course, with an impossible wall I’d never have gotten over without a helpful hand from Jaxson, whizzed through ten-mile runs—running is mything—and managed to give as good as I got in hand-to-hand combat, at which I’m surprisingly capable even against these hard-core professionals so long as weapons aren’t involved. At the end of the day, the men assigned to each obstacle hand Hayden their scorecards. Points are tallied, then posted on the wall by the refreshment table inside the gym. I hover somewhere at the lower end of the pack. Not surprising, given how these men are much more experienced in military-like training. Each night, I return home to Mama and Madelyn, tired, weary, exhilarated. And, truth be told, feeling a little guilty for not being around as much.
Now training has changed from being an individual task to a team effort. And Jaxson has shifted from being someone constantly next to me, taunting me, touching me, keeping up with me, or falling behind simply to train with me, to being thisandbeing my teammate.
“Leave it to you to fix things with Hayden? We’re not talking about a leaky faucet, Jaxson. Jesus, don’t you take anything seriously? My ability with knives is limited to buttering buns and carving off slices of pot roast. Not throwing them at targets. Not throwing them at a live mark. No. You’re out of your bleeding mind. I won’t do it.”
As I speak, he draws in closer. Crowding my space. Making me far too aware of him. I draw in a breath and am rewarded with the tantalizing smell of his skin. He has this spicy, woodsy, rugged, outdoorsman scent, like pepper tree bark, if such a thing exists. Yet what makes my toes curl is that sweet citrusy undernote, like summertime lemonade, that makes me want to sip and lick at his skin . I wiggle my upturned toes—yep, it happens every time I’m near him.
“All this talk about buttered buns and meat is making me hungry. What do you say, fireball? You ready for me yet?”
Ready for him? Hell, no. He’s going to be the death of me yet.
I know this is a tactic of his to throw me off track. Distract me with a hazy fog of lust that seems to kick up on a dime whenever he’s around. And, every single time, my imagination follows him off course and down the naughty path called temptation.
He reaches out and runs a thumb across my cheek. I’m seconds away from raising my chin, arching my spine, and preening like a cat who loves being stroked. Up until I met him, I’d like to believe I was born ready. But now . . . My pulse quickens double time.
