Page 5 of Damaged

Hope was a good thing to have.

It was just after dark by the time Rogue parked his old, beat up F150 curbside in Northridge.

The place where Rebel was supposedly holed up in sat on the edge of North Ridge—in a dumpy apartment building that looked on the verge of being abandoned. Or hell, maybe it already was. Rogue didn’t know nor did he care. He just wanted to find the kid, have a conversation, and then get the hell out of there.

The familiar roar of that sexy Ducati reached his ears, and he gave an internal groan but made himself stay still. He’d reached the walkway of the apartment and from there had had a birds-eye view of the sexy as all fuck assassin. Wrath took off his helmet, shook out his blond hair, and stepped over the seat. The helmet was placed on the seat before the man glanced around, spotted him, and walked toward him.

Wrath should have come with a warning label or maybe a law that said touch at your own risk.

Fuck, he huffed out an annoyed breath.

He was losing it.

That swagger was hell on his nerves.

Steel blue eyes caught and held his across the distance, and that piercing gaze wouldn’t let go of him no matter how much Rogue wanted to look away.

Wrath was forty-one years old; he knew because he’d asked Justice. That was older than him by a good nine years.

It wasn’t really all that many years when he thought about how fit Wrath was. Oh, and the man was one ripped motherfucker. They could have passed for the same age to onlookers. Where Wrath was sleekly muscled, he, on the other hand, was thicker and more muscular and considered stocky.

He could have bench-pressed Wrath if he wanted to, he needed to remind himself of that. Wrath would do well to steer clear of him.

“Daydreaming?” Wrath’s smooth voice whispered near his ear and Rogue closed his eyes when the familiar feeling of lust swept down his spine.

Yes. He’d been caught daydreaming, damn it. …otherwise, how would Wrath have gotten this close and whywasthe man so close?

“No,” he lied, edging away, and pulled his weapon to check the clip. “You ready?”

“Born ready.” The corner of Wrath’s lip quirked, and Rogue had the insane urge to kiss the fucker into submission. But he wasn’t sure it would turn out that way…he just might be the one on his knees.

Would that be a bad thing?

Hell fucking yes it would be.

So much for his “cold shoulder” idea.

He swallowed back his groan of annoyance, scowled instead, and stalked down the cringey, filthy hallway to the stairs.

Rogue took the stairwell upward to the third floor all the while aware of Wrath silently following.

Like an ever-present shadow.

Like a silent protector.

Like a man waiting.

Butterflies swarmed Rogue’s gut and he almost stepped on the junkie passed out in the upper hallway. It was only Wrath’s hand beneath his elbow that kept him from stumbling.

“Thanks,” he muttered, slowly pulling away, but Wrath stepped closer, crowding nearer, so close that the man’s chest brushed the back of his arm.

“Don’t mention it.” Wrath’s voice came from near his ear, and Rogue feared jerking away or making any sudden movements.

Assassins didn’t move quickly in unfamiliar situations. Well, at leasthedidn’t. Rogue didn’t know about any other assassins because even though he’d worked for Erebus in the past, he’d always worked alone.

He was a loner.

Don’t let anyone get close.

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