Page 3 of Damaged

He gave a split-second thought about returning Wrath’s earlier good morning text and telling the assassin that he could handle the job alone, but he didn’t.

And he didn’t look too closely at why he didn’t tell Wrath not to come on the job.

Getting ready, he grumbled the whole time and concluded that he’d show up tonight and give Wrath the cold shoulder.

That should derail the guy’s interest.

Right?

Wrath walked through his large seaside home and stripped on the way to the shower.

Carefully, he unwrapped his midsection and studied the stitched-up knife wound on his right side. Thank fuck it hadn’t been too deep, but deep enough to need stitches—ones he’d stitched himself. It had been painful as hell, but relatively easy—he was a former Navy medic after all.

He grimaced thinking of the man who had gotten the jump on him—which didn’t happen often. On that particular day, he hadn’t seen the knife. The guy had been sitting on the blade, hidden beneath one thigh, and it ended up jabbed into his side.

That had been a week ago and Wrath had put off taking jobs, giving Savage the excuse that he caught the flu. No way in hell was he telling his boss he was injured, that shit right there could take him out of the field.

He flipped on the water in the massive stone-tiled shower and waited for the spray to warm. Twin sinks sat against a mirrored wall and thick fluffy towels hung on a rack just within reach.

Thankfully, he’d had his eye on this place and the escrow had closed before he’d gotten wounded. It still felt a bit surreal livingin the lap of luxury rather than the old run-down apartments he’d rented through the years, but he had his reasons for buying this five-bedroom home.

Mainly, he had wanted to put down roots. And he earned enough money as an Erebus assassin to buy a mansion if he wanted, but he’d fallen in love with this place the moment the realtor had opened the door.

Perhaps a mansion would be in his future, but right now, he had other things he wanted to accomplish.

The first one was working on a relationship with a man named Rogue.

Thinking of Rogue’s big bulky body made his dick hard as he stepped beneath the warm spray and lathered up.

He didn’t linger over any one body part, and he had his reasons. When he and Rogue finally got together—and he had no doubts they would—it would be explosive.

Rinsing off, Wrath dried with a thick towel hanging over the rack and stopped in front of the foggy mirror.

He wiped the fog away with one hand and stared at himself.

“We need a plan,” he told his reflection.

Planning would be hard because he’d heard from Savage that Rogue had yet to commit to working for Erebus.

He got it. Being an assassin was one thing, working for an assassin organization with rules and shit was a whole other can of worms. But Rogue had worked for Erebus when that motherfucker Solomon had been in charge.

It had been a day to celebrate when Azrael stuck a corkscrew up beneath Solomon’s jaw and killed him. Although, Azrael had only been seventeen at the time. Wrath wouldn’t wish that on any kid, but he figured Azrael had had his reasons.

Leaving the bathroom after combing his shoulder-length dark blond hair, he rewrapped the knife wound on his side and pulled on a pair of slim-fit stretchy black pants. The RalphLauren pants ran over five hundred dollars a pair, but it was worth it to be able to do what he needed to do. Combined with a black long-sleeved Henley, he would completely melt into the dark. He grabbed a pair of black, lightweight, soft leather boots and sat on the bed to pull them on.

It was a habit to always be ready. That saved time when a call came in.

Because there was always a call.

Life didn’t pass by without some sick fuck out there doing God knows what to God knows who and Wrath liked stopping the sickos in their fucking tracks.

To blend into the daytime crowd, he selected a tan-colored windbreaker from his closet.

Snagging his phone from the nightstand, he sent Rogue a good morning text even though fifty percent of the time he didn’t get a response. He had his reasons, one being he didn’t want to give Rogue a chance to forget him—ya know, out of sight, out of mind. And two, he wanted Rogue to expect his text so when it didn’t come, he’d wonder, and then he’d worry.

Wrath smiled as he tucked his phone into the front pocket of his pants and headed into his bright, spacious kitchen with its stainless-steel appliances and Italian tile floor. He started a pot of coffee and gazed out the window at the Santa Barbara sunrise just beyond the beach. The Pacific Ocean gleamed within walking distance out his patio door.

He was on his second cup, sitting at the long bar-type counter and reading the morning news when his phone rang with a call from Savage.

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