A loud click signals the end of the message. I hit replay and listen again. It’s no longer safe. Something has happened, but what? And why? Why now? Does it have anything to do with his association with me? Could they have found out that he harbored me, the other son of a traitor?

A surge of fury rises up inside me. Impotent rage. I want blood. Their blood. On my hands, quenching my thirst for revenge. But it seems every step of forward progress I make, they’re there, countering it. Tying my hands.

My frustration is at peak level and I need to vent, to release some angst. One face comes to mind. I’m too angry to think of why it does or the wisdom of going to her. I simply act.

I yank the steering wheel, whipping the car around. With a squeal of the tires, I race back down the street. Back to the condo. Back to her.

The brakes scream as I screech to a stop along the curb. I climb out of the car, slamming the door behind me. When I reach her door, again I don’t bother to knock. I twist the knob and walk right in, thankful it’s still unbolted. The fact that it was, which is incredibly stupid on her part, only adds fuel to the fire of my anger.

I stomp down the hall toward Marissa’s bedroom. Her bathroom door is partially open and I can see her reflection in the mirror. She’s standing in front of the sink with a tube of toothpaste in one hand and her toothbrush in the other.

She has already changed clothes. She’s wearing a tiny little nightie thing. It’s not trashy or blatantly seductive, but it’s sexy as hell nonetheless.

It looks more like something a girl might dress her baby doll in. It’s girly and pink and hangs in a straight line to the tops of her thighs. Thin satin straps hold it in place over her shoulders, like a sundress. Where it departs from anything a child or baby doll might wear is in the material. It’s nearly transparent. I can see the shadow of her ni**les through it, as well as her navel and the outline of her panties. It’s both innocent and provocative, and I want to rip it off her.

I push the door open and it bangs against the stopper on the wall behind it. Her hands pause in midair. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. They’re wide as she watches me. She says nothing.

I walk over to stand behind her. With my eyes on hers, I reach around her and grab her breast. I squeeze it, maybe a little more firmly than I intended, and she flinches. But I don’t care. Right now I need to be rough. And right now I need her to take it.

As if in answer to me, I feel her nipple tighten beneath my palm. Maybe I wasn’t too rough. Or maybe she likes it rough.

I feel myself straining against my jeans. With my free hand, I reach for her toothbrush and toothpaste, jerking them from her fingers and flinging them into the sink.

I lower my hands to her h*ps and curl my fingers in the material of her nightie. I raise it. When she doesn’t resist, I pull it over her head and toss it onto the floor behind me.

Her ni**les are puckered and ready for my touch. Her chest rises and falls with her accelerated breathing. Her bottom lip trembles in anticipation. Yes, she likes it like this, whether she’d ever admit to it or not.

I palm both br**sts and pull her back against me, flush against my chest. She lets her head fall back, but she watches me from beneath her lashes. “You’re so fu—damn sexy,” I groan, catching myself.

I roll the tight ni**les between my fingertips, lightly pinching them. Her lips part and I hear a tiny gasp escape them. I press my lower body toward her, grinding my hard-on against her. She arches her back and pushes that firm, round ass out, rubbing it back and forth over me. I grit my teeth so hard I could bite nails.

I move my hands down to her hips, holding them still while I move against her. I bend my head to her neck and gently sink my teeth into her scented skin. Her eyelids flutter shut.

Sliding one hand around to her stomach, I push my fingers under the edge of her panties, then down to cup her warm flesh.

Her lips part further and she widens her stance. Just a little, just enough that I have better access.

Yeah, she likes this. She wants it. But I want to see the desperation in her eyes.

She moves against my hand. I know what she needs, where she wants me to put my fingers. But I want her to wait a little longer for it.

Without parting her folds, I move my hand over her, teasing her. I can feel the moisture against my palm. It makes me throb with the need to be inside her.

But at the moment, I want to look in her eyes more than anything. I move my free hand to her hip. With one quick jerk, I tear her panties. The thin band breaks easily under the force. She gasps in surprise, but she doesn’t open her eyes. They’re still closed. But I don’t want them to be. I want them open. I want to see her reaction. I want her to know that I’m angry and that I’m taking what I want, not asking for it. And that she’s giving it to me.

I want to see that she accepts me this way.

I slap her on the ass and growl, “Watch.” Her eyes pop open and focus on mine. They’re dark with passion. And acceptance. And excitement. “Good girl,” I say, rewarding her by sliding one finger of my other hand between her swollen lips. She’s slick with desire. I rub my fingertip over the firm nub at the top of her lips and her eyelids drift shut again. I give it a little pinch and she moans. “Watch,” I demand again.

Obediently, she opens her eyes to meet mine. They’re slow to focus. She’s under my spell. I reach up to tease her nipple with my free hand and I put my lips against her ear. “You want to know what’s inside my head? This is inside my head. Anger,” I say gruffly as I push two fingers down between her folds and into the slippery heat of her body. I pull them out a couple of inches and then drive them back into her, deep and hard. Rough. I feel her knees buckle, but I hold her against me and make her ride my fingers.

“But you like it, don’t you? You like me like this. You want me to take what I need. You want to be free with me, don’t you?”

Faster and harder, I jam my fingers into her. Faster and shallower her breathing becomes. When I feel her muscles tighten around my fingers, squeezing them, I move my thumb to the firm button of her clitoris and I make small circles over her, faster and faster. I see her body tense and I don’t relent until she’s standing, breathless and waiting, on the edge of her orgasm.

And then I stop.

I move my hand from her breast to my jeans, unzipping them, then placing my palm in the center of her back to push her forward. She braces herself on the granite countertop as I move one knee between her legs, urging them farther apart.

“I want you to beg me,” I hiss through gritted teeth. “Beg me to put my c**k in you and come inside your wet body. Beg me or I’ll walk right out that door.”

I’m holding nothing back now. This is the real me. This is all there is now. Fury. Rage. And blistering heat.

“Please. I want you inside me. Please,” she breathes.

“Tell me to put my c**k in you.”

“Please, put your c**k in me.”

Moving both hands to her hips, I thrust into her, deep and rough. She’s so wet, I’m exploding within three strokes. I hear a loud, angry roar. It’s me, the sound ripped from my body as I pump forcefully into her.

As I spill hot fluid into her body, I feel the spasms of her muscles get tighter and tighter. Her breath comes in deep, heavy moans as the waves of her orgasm flood her body. “You like that, don’t you? You like the feel of me coming inside you, don’t you, baby?”

I pull her tight against me, grinding into her. I look down and see my thumbs biting into the perfect round globes of her ass. Saliva gushes into my mouth. I want to sink my teeth into it. I want to see the red mark that I make on her and then I want to soothe that ass with my lips and my tongue.

The desire to lose myself in her is stronger than ever. Lose myself in her body, in her taste, in her scent. Impulsively, I withdraw from her and drop to my knees, giving in to the urge to bite her ass cheek. I hear her yelp, so I lick the spot, caressing the other cheek with my hand.

I move my hands to her h*ps and turn her around, facing me. With my palms against her skin, I move up the inside of her thighs and part her legs. I run my tongue between the crease of her lips, sucking her cl*tinto my mouth while I delve into her wet body with one finger. The tunnel is slippery with our combined fluids and still spasming gently, her orgasm beginning to ebb.

Straightening, I bring my wet finger to her shocked and parted lips and I slip it into her mouth.

“This is us together. Taste it.”

Obediently, she takes my finger into her mouth and closes her lips around it, sucking, her smoldering eyes locked on mine.

When my finger is clean, I reach behind her and grab her toothbrush and toothpaste, handing them to her. Automatically, she takes them from my grasp.

Without a word, I zip my pants, turn around, and walk back out the way I came.

* * *

I rub my stinging eyes, the interstate in front of my headlights blurring for an instant before my focus comes back. I glance down at the dashboard clock. It’s nearly two a.m. I don’t know exactly what time it was when I left Marissa’s, but I know I’ve been driving for hours. I knew it was time to turn around when I crossed over into Tennessee.

After I left her standing in her bathroom, I went out to the car. As soon as I started it up, I wanted to shut it off again and go back inside. That’s the only reason I didn’t—because I wanted to. And wanting to is not a good sign.

I was already feeling guilty about taking her in such anger, and that didn’t leave a good taste in my mouth. Guilt and I don’t get along, much less guilt over a woman. That’s exactly why I avoid emotional entanglements with the opposite sex. In the last few years, I haven’t been in one spot long enough for it to be an issue, but I remember all too clearly from life before exile what it feels like to get involved with a girl. Thanks, but no thanks.

It irks me that I’m anxious to get back to her condo. I keep telling myself it’s because I’m tired. But it’s not the bed I keep picturing. Well, at least not an empty bed.

I texted her a few minutes after eleven, just to make sure she was okay. I don’t think she’s in any danger, but I’d be an idiot not to at least be cautious. My question was the same simple question I’ve asked before.

U ok?

And her answer was the same simple word it’s been each time I’ve asked.

Yes.

But that was a while ago. Surely she’ll be asleep when I get back. That ought to make things a little less . . . messy.

I’m relieved when I see the familiar curb come into sight, and even more so when I see that all the windows are dark. I make my way to the door and slip the key Cash told me belonged to her door into the lock. I guess they haven’t really had time to sort out all that his-shit, her-shit stuff. Quietly, I creep through to her bedroom door. It’s open and I can see her form beneath the covers. It’s illuminated by a shaft of moonlight peeking between the curtains.

I realize the considerate thing to do would be to crash on the couch. Luckily, I’m not the considerate type, so she would expect nothing less than for me to come to bed. To her bed. At least she should expect that from me.

Silently kicking off my boots and stripping out of my clothes, I ease onto the bed and slide under the sheet. She’s rolled up in a ball on her side, facing me. I watch for her eyes to open and listen for her to speak or stir, but she doesn’t, so I close my eyes and relax into the pillow.

A couple of minutes later, just before I drift off to sleep, I hear her voice. It’s quiet in the darkness, but still it startles me. And the touch of her soft fingers gives me chills.

“What does this mean?” she asks, tracing part of the tattoo on my arm.

“You scared the piss out of me. I thought you were asleep.”

“I couldn’t sleep until I knew you were back.”

I don’t know if that means she was afraid of being alone or she was worried about me. I like the thought of her worrying about me, but at the same time it irritates me because I like it.

“Well, I’m back, so go to sleep.”

“I can’t yet. I’m too keyed up. Talk to me. Tell me about your tattoo.”

“I don’t talk about it. Ever.”

“But you can tonight, can’t you? Please.”

Something in her voice, in the vague glint from her eyes that I can see in the darkness, pricks me, pricks my thick scar tissue.

I sigh and close my eyes again, going back in time to places and people and events I’d rather forget. Only I can’t. I’ll never be able to.

“When I first started on the boat, I had no idea what kind of business those guys were into. I thought it was just a cargo ship. I figured we’d haul merchandise from point A to point B and then go back for more. It wasn’t big enough to haul very many containers, and all the ones I got to see the inside of were full of tires. There was no reason for me to think there was anything foul going on.” I pause as I remember the day I first witnessed a deal for something other than tires. “Until we made our first trip into the Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea.”

Marissa moves in closer to snuggle against my side and lay her head on my shoulder, her fingers continually tracing the swirling patterns on my bicep.

“The first time, I was more an observer than anything. I stayed on the ship while some of the crew loaded crates that were buried behind the tires onto a smaller boat and took them to shore. It was broad daylight and we could see everything that happened on the beach. I thought it was strange that we were meeting on a near-deserted island, anyway. When I heard the gunshots and saw two of the guys from our ship fall, I knew why. I knew something illegal was going on.

“That night, Dmitry, the one my father put me in contact with, came to my room and told me that if I didn’t keep my mouth shut, he couldn’t protect me and there was nowhere on earth I could hide. He was very matter-of-fact about it, but I knew he was serious. I didn’t ask questions, but I tried to stay out of anyone’s notice as much as I could. It was one day a couple months later that I heard Dmitry arguing with Alexandroff, the ship’s captain I was telling you about.