Page 24 of Rogue
Please let him be alive. Please.
My hands shaking, I feel for a pulse. Nothing. I can’t tell, my hands are shaking so hard. I rip open his shirt straight down to the hem, sending buttons flying everywhere. For a half a heartbeat, my attention pauses on his taut, muscular chest. And the scars . . . they’re everywhere. Covering his entire chest. Small warning cuts. All recent. Except for the long, jagged one running from his left nipple to his belly button. A deep, vicious cut designed to break a man. Oh my God, he’s been tortured.
Because of me. Because I failed to save him.
I choke back a sob.
Breathe, damn it. Breathe.
There. My heart stutters. His chest moves. He’s alive. Unconscious but alive.
I taste salt on my lips as tears roll down my cheeks. Foreign and fickle. Of all the damn timing? I never cry. Not anymore. My tears dried up nine months ago in a sudden Shelby storm.
I run a finger across his jaw, then kiss him lightly, tenderly.
Good-bye, my love.
As I scramble to my feet, I hear him cough. With a steady hand, I grab his gun from the floor where he must have dropped it and tuck it inside my pants. I pause, scowling down at the scarf before grabbing it too. Then, drawing on every ounce of willpower, I hightail it out the door without looking backward.
7
Paris
I’m in shock. I’m unable to get a grip on my feelings. I remember too much, when common sense tells me to forget.
Jaxson’s lips brushing against mine.
His hungry gaze from across the room, his eyes fixed on me like I’m the dessert on his late-night menu.
Him asleep beside me, peaceful, heartbreakingly beautiful . . .mine.
Not anymore. He hates me. The thought hurts, but I’m shuffling through a freak show of emotions trying to understand my feelings. The problem is I’m feelingeverything; anger, betrayal, mistrust, frustration, guilt.
Goddamn love.
For two days, I’ve curled up in bed at a new hotel, licking my wounds while surviving on a horde of baguettes, cheese, and as many pastries as the corner baker could fit into one bag. Two wine bottles lay empty on the nightstand. A German Riesling—hey, no saying I’ll even make it out of this bed, let alone to Germany—and a Bordeaux, which after I consumed the entire bottle, did the unthinkable and made me weep.
That’s right, I blame it on the Bordeaux.
Jesus, Jaxson.
I spent hours running my hands across his chest, fascinated with his muscled physique, the fine cut of his abdomen, the beauty mark located to the right of his belly button. Now hours thinking about his body, his smile . . . him, and those horrid scars. What did Novák’s men do to him?
All because of me and my not being in the right place at the right time, as promised.
A tear drips off my cheek and lands on the back of my hand in a pool of sadness. Damn, it’s the Bordeaux talking again. I shake my tears off like I’ve been burned.
No, I’ve never been an overly emotional girl, the kind who cries herself to sleep after pigging out on a pint of Häagen-Dazs and watchingThe Notebook. This mental-health break—that’s what I call it, for lack of a better term—frustrates me to no end. But I guess every Jill has a Jack to turn her into a blithering, runny-nosed mess.
He’s alive, I keep reminding myself. And that’s the name of the game, right? Best remember it.
Time to buck up, buttercup.
I roll out of bed and hit the shower. Midshampoo, an idea forms.
In Shelby, every school year began with the same question. “What do you want to be when you grow up?”Private security contractorwasn’t anyone’s answer. Neither wasmercenary. Orkiller.
Too much time’s been wasted. I need to forget I ever cared about him. Give in to my resentment. He’s been alive all this time . . . without my knowing it. Without believing in me.
