Page 29 of Savage Reckoning

She glares at me. “I know better now. You’re deluded, Sawyer. Deranged, even. Don’t flatter yourself.”

The vehemence in her tone is enough to make me laugh out loud, but I restrain myself. “Fair enough. Now we’ve got that settled, who do we need to talk to about that room?” I exit the car and saunter towards the main entrance, taking care to rearrange my rampant cock in my jeans. All this talk of shared rooms, it has to stop…

If the night sister on duty is surprised to see us arriving in the middle of the night, she conceals it well. I get the impression they are not exactly wedded to routine here and just take what comes. She recognises Megan and is happy enough to hand over the key to one of their relatives’ suites.

We let ourselves in, and the first thing I spot is the twin beds. Megan is on it, too.

“That one’s yours,” she announces, pointing to the one by the door. “I’ll get undressed in the bathroom.”

She scuttles off, slams the door behind her. The sound of the bolt sliding home reverberates around the compact space.

I do a quick circuit of the suite and find the tea- and coffee-making facilities, just like in a hotel room. I pick up the kettle and carry it over to the bathroom door.

“What do you want?” she snaps in response to my knock.

“I want to fill the kettle.”

“You’ll have to wait.”

I shrug and set that project aside, while I take off my shirt and drape it over a chair, to be followed by my boots and socks. I’m just unfastening my belt when she re-emerges.

“You could have waited until I was in bed,” she complains, though I can tell she’s making an effort not to ogle me.

I have no such scruples, but her perfectly decent oversized T-shirt and loose shorts are not designed to excite. Even so, my cock has other ideas. I hitch a hip on the hospital-issue dresser and watch her moving about the apartment.

She picks up the kettle and fills it, then pads over to plug it in. “You shouldn’t have coffee at this time. It’ll keep you awake.”

It won’t be just the coffee keeping me awake. Maybe I should have taken up her offer of a hotel after all.

Despite Megan’s best efforts, the slim outline of her body is clearly apparent beneath the shapeless top, and her tantalising long legs are setting all sorts of filthy fantasies running in my head. A particularly vivid image of these same legs wrapped around my waist comes to mind, and it’s all I can do not to groan. Is it that long since I got laid? Yeah, a couple of months at least.

And if I’m honest, no one has ever quite matched up to the memory of the sexy young doctor whose life I so comprehensively wrecked.

“You have some new tattoos.”

Her remark interrupts my hike down memory lane. “One or two, yes.” It came with the territory of infiltrating the Sokolov Bratva. I need to look the part.

“What do they mean?” she asks. “This one, for example.” She points to the crimson-and-black dagger etched on my right shoulder.

“That marks me as an enforcer, with kills under my belt. See, the notches on the hilt?’

She moves in to inspect the image more carefully. “Oh. There are four…”

“I’ve yet to add Fedor Morozov. The Sokolov Vor I offed in Belarus,” I add when I see puzzlement flicker across her face.

“Does that count?” she wonders.

“They all count, baby.”

“Hmm. I don’t remember this one either.” Now she indicates the white dove soaring across my left pectoral muscle. “What’s this for?”

“I just liked it,” I lie. No way am I telling her the truth, that the dove represents her, the beautiful creature that I let slip through my fingers. It was inked there in an uncharacteristically sentimental moment, and she’d never believe me in any case.

“You’ve been shot,” she announces suddenly, having spotted the scar below my ribs. “That wasn’t there before.”

“I picked that up eighteen months ago in a skirmish in Syria,” I explain. “It matches the one on my foot.”

Her face falls. She steps away.

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