Page 54 of Shark Bait

That does it. Instead of screaming, I bite down on my arm, dig my fingernails into the headboard, and release an orgasm that feels like an avalanche. Shark follows as he ejaculates inside me and shouts my name.

NINETEEN

TOMORROW ALWAYS COMES

SHARK

Earlier in the night, Troy stole all the covers, and half an hour ago, in her sleep, she took my pillow and tucked it between her legs. I’m watching her lying next to me, sleeping in the nude since I never got a chance to grab her a T-shirt from my suitcase, which the staff left in the den. It’s where I planned to work from while staying in Alessio’s guest house.

Troy fell asleep shortly after the third round of sex. I kept my nightlight on so I could watch her while she was silent and unaware. There’s something utterly fascinating about watching people while they’re sleeping. Troy in particular.

She’s pretty, to be sure, but until now, I never noticed the flawlessness of her skin. The lack of freckles or blemishes or old scars. Only smooth skin that I run my thumb over, hoping my touch won’t smear dirt on her cheek.

And I don’t mean actual dirt.

I mean the dirt left over from my hands that have done work her government didn’t want to do and for longer than she’s been on this planet. They’re smeared with the blood of hundreds of people, and not all of them bad. Some were simply stupid enough to get caught in the web of their own lies. Others madegreedy choices that led them to cross paths with people whose way of doing business they couldn’t handle.

Sometimes, like now, I wish I could wipe my hands clean and, along with them, my memories of my teenage and young adult years. But even if I could get rid of it all, no amount of scrubbing could wash off the dirt left on my body. I’ve tried. I’ve scrubbed myself raw more times than I can count.

The reason I can’t feel clean is because of all the bad shit I keep locked up in my head. Now would be a good time to take my own advice and get ahold of what’s running through my mind. It would be so much easier if I had amnesia.

Hell, I wish Troy would wake up with amnesia. Then she’d have never met me as an assassin and I could’ve hidden that part of my life from her altogether. I could erase her as Alessio and I erased me. She and I could have a fresh start. Free from our pasts.

But life happens. We are where we’re meant to be, and tomorrow always comes.

Troy’ll wake up sore between her legs and maybe even horny for more. She’ll wake up completely oblivious to the fact that I’ll ask her to marry me. And I can only hope she’ll say yes so that I don’t have to drag her to the altar. Which might send me over the edge and after Alessio, who, along with Valerina, must witness our wedding.

Nobody wants Alessio and me coming to blows. What I want is to marry Troy. What I want is for her to have her baby in a place where she’s surrounded by people who care about her.

And I also want vengeance. I want the man who calls himself La Falena, which is Italian for moth, and everyone he surrounds himself with. They will suffer. I intend to get creative with their suffering. It will be their prelude to hell.

Across the courtyard, in the main house, a light flickers on and off. I peck Troy’s cute, perfect nose, slide out of bed, andturn off the lamp. I put on Alessio’s T-shirt and a pair of his gray sweatpants, then leave the room.

The spare key to the blue door is buried under the lavender plant. I dig it out and lock the door from the outside. I pocket the key, feeling like a complete shit for trapping her in the guest house, even if by the time she wakes up, I’ll have already returned and opened the house back up. But I can’t even walk as far as the kitchen without knowing nobody can get to her, even though I personally set up alarms around Alessio’s property.

I don’t know if I’m more afraid she’ll run from me or if I’m afraid someone will take her from me. And that’s how I know I’m starting to obsess over her. But that’s okay. Some of my obsessions are healthier than others, and Troy is a healthy one.

Alessio meets me by the pool, and we start our stretching, preparing for our morning workout. You’d think he’d take advantage of the location of his property and miles of uninterrupted stretches of beach, but he doesn’t. Alessio lives on the top floor of his building in Rome, where he jogs on a treadmill while watching people jog over the ancient cobblestone streets.

He’s a man of structure and rules, and oftentimes, his character makes him difficult to negotiate with. Given that I work best with well-defined rules and have never broken his until I brought Troy, I think he should grant me an exception now. I need more time before I ask Troy to marry me.

As soon as we start the treadmills, and I say, “She’ll say no.”

Alessio slings a white towel over his shoulder. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You have a fifty-fifty chance.”

“Exactly,” I say, my voice pitched a little higher than I intended.

Alessio glances at me. “Don’t panic. I think she’ll agree.”

“I’m not panicking.” At least I don’t think I am. “You must know how I feel about pressuring a woman into marrying me.”

“It was your idea, not mine. You told me she was your wife.”

“I know what I said.”

---