Page 61 of Nothing More

“Are you done?”

“That depends. When will I see you next?”

The scowl deepened.

“You can’t very well tell me your old friends are mailing me extremities and then disappear again. If I must tolerate Shep, then I expect updates.”

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Relief, she supposed. Doubtless he’d worried she’d be weepy and sentimental in the aftermath.

“Well?” she prompted.

“I’ll text you,” he finally conceded, and started for the slider. “I have to go.”

“The roof again?”

“Do you want your sister knowing I was here?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Not especially, no.” Mostly because she thought Cass might have squealed with delight and demanded to know if he was as dreamy a kisser as his hair and brooding scowl suggested. That was a conversation for which Raven wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready.

“Right.” He put his hand on the slider – and then paused. Half-turned so he could make eye contact again. When he spoke, his words were brusque, but not unfeeling. His cheeks colored. Embarrassment? Maybe. “I don’t know what’s going on yet,” he said, “but I will. I’ll find out, and I’ll put a stop to it. But you need to be careful. Don’t take unnecessary risks. Don’t go anywhere alone. Call Maverick if there’s any more developments.”

She sat up straight and saluted. “Aye aye, comrade,” she said in a passable imitation of his accent.

He frowned. “I’m Russian, not communist.”

Raven snorted.

He opened the slider, ghosted out onto her balcony, and was gone from sight the moment the door clicked shut.

~*~

Rooftops were the places that always felt the most like home, and he did get homesick, sometimes. More often than most would have guessed. In so many ways, a city was a city; they were all dirty, and smoggy, and too crowded. They all had their birds – pigeons, here, and a whole mess of ravens in Moscow.

Ravens, he thought, perched on an AC box, cross-legged, facing into the cold wind as it dried his hair and chilled him inside his too-thin jacket. How fitting. A more sentimental man would have thought it kismet. He didn’t miss the bratva; didn’t miss the jobs, the sight of blood in the snow of his home city streets. But he missed the way it had been a place to which he belonged; the birthplace of his language, and his outlook on life. He’d always enjoyed the peace of stolen rooftop moments, nose and fingers numb from the cold, surrounded by roosting ravens that cackled, and fussed, and tucked their heads beneath their wings to sleep.

It was a very different sort of blackbird that occupied his thoughts now. That filled his mind completely until his temples throbbed, and his breath shuddered in his lungs on each drag of his cigarette.

He hadn’t meant for any of that to happen. Had known the moment he stole into the stairwell on the first floor of the building that coming to see her in any capacity was a mistake. He was no longer indifferent; he was vulnerable to opportunity. Had foolishly thought she was owed an explanation, because he knew that no one else would offer her one.

He'd known he would startle her, but hadn’t known just how badly until he saw the stark terror on her face, cheeks bloodless, eyes tremendous. Guilt had needled him…and then anger, because what a fool she was to keep clothing herself in anger when what she really wanted to do was ask for help.

Stubborn woman.

Beautiful woman, face scrubbed clean, hair damp and rumpled, wearing clinging silk and, when he advanced on her, when he grabbed her, a naked, irresistible hunger.

He didn’t know why she wanted him – if it was the thrill of a bit of rough, or some Freudian issues involving her brothers – and he didn’t care. He’d long suspected she wasn’t the sort who’d calm down until she was made to calm down.

He’d been right.

But he’d been wrong, too, because he’d thought he could hold himself back, just make it about her, but he hadn’t been able to.

He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but he hadn’t come that hard in a long time. Hadn’t felt almost vicious as he’d gripped a woman tight and finished inside her, too caught up to hold back, or pull out.

He’d woken with a start to find that she’d turned toward him in her sleep, pressed her face into his throat, her breath warm and even against his pulse. He’d almost made the stupid decision to close his eyes and drift off again. Instead, he’d rallied, slipped away without waking her, and shut himself in the ensuite.

He hadn’t recognized the haunted, hollow-eyed man who’d met his stare in the mirror. He’d looked scared…and he had been. Afraid that she’d been targeted because of him. That he’d just made things far, far more complicated for both of them.

He’d been able to smell her on himself, her sweat, her slick. Had still been able to taste her. He’d wanted to dress and go, keep those reminders with him…but thought of someone else smelling her on him, knowing her in that intimate way, was so repulsive that he’d climbed into her gleaming marble shower and scrubbed himself raw with soap that was set, inexplicably, with coffee beans.

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