Page 24 of Deceive Me
“What do you really want?” Elliot asked, suspicion obvious.
He couldn’t resist a grin, nor the retort that rose. “I’m getting what I want right now, thanks.”
His feet moved him forward before he was fully aware of the urge. Elliot didn’t back away, not this woman. Fearless. Defiant. And hungry. Drawing close, he let his gaze trace where he wanted his fingers, down the material next to the swell of her breasts, her naked collarbone. She could just as easily have been going running in this outfit, but here, in her bedroom, in the dark, there was nothing sexier than that slim strip of cloth over her shoulder. “Is this your nighttime uniform?”
She couldn’t miss the husky tone of his voice, but though she tensed, it wasn’t fear he read in her face. Not even close. Her shrug wasn’t as casual as she probably intended. “Whatever works. Fatigues don’t make for easy sleeping.”
“No, they don’t.” He’d slept in uniform more times than he could count.
“What are you doing, Deacon?”
The words were rough. His groin tightened even more. “Getting to know you.”
Elliot snorted.
Deacon grinned at the sound. It turned to a frown when the sound of footsteps approaching in the hall registered.
Patrol. Saint.
Elliot startled.
Deacon’s foot didn’t want to move, but he forced it back anyway. “So…you have everything you need, right?”
“Right.”
Saint appeared behind him in the doorway, light flashing off the silver crucifix lying against his black tank. A frown formed a vee between his eyebrows. “Everything okay?”
“Perfect,” Deacon assured him. “Just checking in.” He turned to leave, throwing back over his shoulder. “Good night, Elliot.”
Her quiet “good night” kept him up far longer than it should have.
10
Elliot was awake, staring at the dark, blank ceiling, when her alarm gave a single low beep. A push of the button on her watch shut the sound off as she dragged heavy limbs over the side of the bed and rubbed her tired eyes. Fucking conscience. Between its constant demand to spill her guts—in a voice remarkably like her boss’s—and the remembered feel of Deacon’s silent gaze on her every second they were together, sleep was getting hard to come by.
But she had a job to do.
Shaking off her fatigue, she dragged on running clothes in the predawn darkness of her room. A trip to the bathroom was accomplished without sound, and then she was walking into the hallway, her shoes clutched in her fingers instead of on her feet. No way in hell did she want Deacon finding out about her little morning forays outside. It was bad enough Saint would know about them, but there was no getting past her teammate if she wanted a little freedom. At least that’s what he thought she wanted.
He wasn’t completely wrong. Elliot carried tension every moment that she was on a job; they all knew that, knew she occasionally needed to blow off steam. But this job? The tension was even higher because Deacon was watching her. She knew surveillance when she saw it, felt it. And she did with Deacon, but there was also something else, something more that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Something that made her…restless. She itched for a break in the pressure, a fight, anything to distract her from the electricity running under her skin anytime he came into the room.
Mansa was the perfect distraction, but the bastard hadn’t even hinted at a move. He was taking his fucking time. And Elliot was scrambling for ways to avoid telling Deacon the truth. The urge hadn’t left the tip of her tongue all evening, and when he’d come into her room and stood there, staring at her, studying her? She’d wanted to confess then, in the dark where it was safe, but nothing she did made the words come out, and it wasn’t because his eyes on her made her tongue-tied. They just wouldn’t pass the huge lump in her throat.
Maybe she was a coward like General Ingram had always claimed. Every hesitation, every question had been beaten out of her, literally and figuratively, during the five years she’d spent in his compound. By the time she’d turned eighteen, fighting was all she knew. Traveling the underground fighting circuit, feeding the thirst for blood, for pain, had been a natural choice until the night Dain came to one of her fights. The night he’d convinced her to come work for him.
Dain had taught her about free will. He was still teaching her, so why couldn’t she man up?
As she walked into the foyer, the faint night-light down the hall struck a gleam on the crucifix lying on the outside of Saint’s T-shirt. The silver chain might be a sexy piece of jewelry for most men, but not for him; he took that shit seriously. The necklace never came off her teammate’s neck unless they were fighting, and only then because he didn’t want it broken. A gift from his grandmother, he’d told Elliot once. She had no idea what it was like to even know your grandmother, much less carry a piece of their spirit with you, a tie to the religion they’d handed down through generations. She was the only generation of her family left that she knew of.
Well, not the only one. But she was trying to make up for that with these early morning runs.
Saint nodded at her from his position to one side of the staircase, his dark eyes narrowed. “Fionn just started his morning patrol,” he said quietly. “I’ll let him know you’re wandering.”
“I need the exercise.”
His eyes narrowed farther. Damn it. There was no need to be defensive if her motives were innocent, but she couldn’t help the edge accompanying her words. What Fionn knew, Deacon knew. She could do without that.
Any doubts Saint had went unexpressed. A jerk of his chin urged her out the door. “Then go run the ants out of your pants, little Otter.”
