“Look at me.”

I open my eyes and they meet his. He stares at me for several long, puzzling seconds before he flexes his h*ps and moves into me, inch by excruciating inch. And when he’s deep inside me, filling me up in so much more than just a physical way, he presses his lips to mine in a kiss that reaches the most sacred, terrified part of me.

When I feel the brush of his tongue, tender turns to passionate and my body clamps down around his. He begins to move within me, pushing me relentlessly toward a pleasure I’ve only ever experienced in his arms, at his touch.

My orgasm is unlike any other. It washes over me like warm honey, slow and sweet.

“I love to feel you, so tight and wet all around me,” he groans, slowing his delicious torture to prolong my pleasure.

He doesn’t stop until the earth is firm beneath me once more. Then, with a gentleness I haven’t seen in him thus far, he slips out of me and rolls me onto my stomach.

I’m boneless, with neither the will nor the desire to resist him as he stuffs a pillow beneath my hips. I feel like I have nothing left to give when his lips touch me.

“I love this ass,” he says softly, kissing my cheek then nipping it lightly with his teeth. His hands caress my butt, then travel down my thighs to tenderly spread my legs. He slides a finger inside me and, much to my surprise, I feel a gush of heat flood my stomach. Again. “There’s at least one more in you,” he says. I feel his weight against my butt when he leans over me and whispers in my ear, “Can you do that for me? Can you come for me one more time?”

I don’t know the answer to that, so I say nothing. But when his finger moves down to rub back and forth over my clitoris, I feel like there’s a distinct possibility.

His legs between mine force them farther apart and I feel his thick head probe my entrance just before he pushes into me. That full feeling, that glorious full feeling, makes me groan and my body comes immediately back to life.

He moans as he pulls out and thrusts back in. “That’s what I thought.”

I push up onto my elbows and arch my back, giving him deeper penetration. “Oh yeah,” he whispers, his hands grabbing my h*ps and pulling me harder against him.

Moving the fingers of one hand around, I feel his fingertip at my clitoris again, rubbing rhythmic circles that keep perfect time with the thrusts of his body. It isn’t long before I feel the familiar ache of tension building.

I rock against Nash. His breath starts to come in pants and I know he’s getting close, which excites me that much more. When he suddenly stills behind me, I feel the pulse of his own explosion and it triggers mine. Together, we cl**ax, my body squeezing his, his throbbing inside mine.

Almost absently, he rubs his palms over my lower back and butt, over and over in soft, wide circles. Just before he pulls out and collapses onto me, I feel his lips between my shoulder blades. It sounds like he whispers something, but the darkness swallows it up, never to be heard again.

TWENTY-FIVE

Nash

The ring of my phone wakes me. I roll over in bed, still groggy. Sleepily, I reach for the noisy square and glance at the display. I shoot straight up in bed, coming fully awake. There’s no name associated with the number, but I know who it belongs to regardless.

Dmitry.

“Hello?”

“Nikolai, meet me in two hours,” he says in his thick accent. He proceeds to give me the address of a motel in a town about an hour’s drive from Atlanta. “Room eleven. Come alone. We’ll talk more when you get here.”

I hear the click of the broken connection. I lower the phone and stare at it for a few minutes, marveling at the reality of my life.

Shit like this is only supposed to happen in the movies.

As quietly as I can, trying not to wake Marissa, I get up and shower. With Dmitry, there is no hesitation. He’s one of the few people that I nearly trust. Even with such an ambiguous, ominous message, I’ll still do as he asks. Oh, I’ll be cautious, of course. And I’ll be armed. But I’ll still go. He knows my ultimate goal better than almost anyone. And I get the feeling what he has for me is pertinent to it.

It’s barely nine, but I can tell the day is going to be hot and humid. My shirt is already sticking to my back after five minutes in Cash’s car.

By leaving now, I should arrive about half an hour early, which is far better than arriving late. I can sit at a reasonable distance and watch the place for a few minutes before showing myself.

My thoughts on the trip are a bizarre splicing of Marissa and all the unwanted emotions she inspires in me with the rage and bitterness that has gnawed at my gut for what seems like an eternity. What could be the strangest thing of all, however, is that, more often than not, I find that my mind strays from revenge and death and loss to Marissa. Again and again and again.

Could I be wrong about everything? Could there be a future for us? Could I finally have the life I was supposed to live all along? Is it too late for a guy like me? And could it ever work with a woman like Marissa? Do I ever stand a chance of being good enough for her?

You’re a fu—damn idiot for even thinking stupid shit like this!

But even as I chastise myself, I shake my head at the change in my thoughts. Even when she’s not around, when she can’t hear me, I’m censoring myself. For her. Out of respect for her.

I’m no clearer on what the hell I’m thinking or doing when I arrive at the intersection across from the motel. It looks like a serial killer’s wet dream, what with its peeling paint, rusty doors, and erratically blinking neon sign. It might as well read “Bates Motel.”

Slowly, I guide the car to the right rather than going through the intersection to the motel. I pull into a defunct gas station and head for a small crop of trees at the back of the lot. I think I can see room number eleven from there.

And I can. I put the car in park and I watch. And I wait.

A couple of times, I see the curtains that cover the big picture window part. Dmitry isn’t close enough to the glass that I can see him. I only see a shadow move against the dim light in the interior of the room.

Time crawls by until I finally decide to make my appearance. I drive back the way I came and, this time, make another right at the intersection, bringing me alongside the entrance to the motel.

I bypass the office and the greasy bifocaled man I see sitting behind the counter watching television. Instead, I head around the side to the row of parking spaces in front of the motel room doors. I drive all the way to the end and park in front of number twenty.

From the corner of my eye, I closely examine every vehicle I pass and every window of every room I pass, cataloging them in intimate detail. Nothing looks amiss. But that doesn’t mean it’s not.

I knock on the door to number eleven. The third time I rap my knuckles on the cold metal, one of the ones in “11” comes loose at the top and swings down, dangling by its bottom edge.

Nice.

The curtain over the window parts again. This time I can identify Dmitry. My muscles ease the smallest amount.

The door opens just enough for me to step through. Dmitry is behind it, so I have a clear view into the empty room. My tension eases even more.

He closes the door and moves to hug me. He gives me a hardy slap on the back and grabs my face in his hands, as many Russians do, and kisses both cheeks, then gives them a slap as well.

“You look good, Nikolai,” Dmitry says, walking to the dresser that he’s using as a minibar. He pours two snifters of vodka and hands one to me. I down it in one gulp.

“Why are you holed up here, Dmitry? What happened?”

Dmitry sighs into his glass, staring into the bottom like he might find answers, before he takes a sip. Before he responds, he walks to the bed and perches on the edge of the mattress. In the sliver of light coming through the small gap in the curtains, I can see him better. And I can see that he doesn’t look good.

Dmitry is tall for a Russian, but not nearly as tall as me. I’d call him stocky. Paired with the tenacious set of his square jaw and his steely blue eyes, he tends to intimidate most people. But I doubt he would today. His shaggy dark-blond-and-gray hair looks like it hasn’t seen a shower in days, and his cheeks have at least three days’ growth on them. But it’s the set of his mouth that tells the tale. It’s grim. And tired.

“Good God, you look like you haven’t slept since I saw you last. What the hell is the matter with you?”

“I know who killed your mother, Nikolai.”

I frown. “So do I. Is that why you brought me here? To tell me who the triggerman was?”

“No. Not only that.” He pauses. It’s dramatic, whether he intends it to be or not. My teeth are on edge until he continues. “I brought you here because I have him. Here. Tied up. Waiting for you.”

My heart thunders against my ribs. Everything in the world disappears but me and the man across from me. And the possibility that seven years’ worth of yearning might culminate right here. Dmitry has delivered to me the only gift men like us can give each other—the satisfaction of revenge. Retribution.

My ears are ringing so loudly I can barely hear my own voice when I ask. “Where?”

“In the next room,” he says, tipping his head to a door on one wall, a door that adjoins the room next door.

I feel like I’m in a daze when I walk to it and push it open. It’s surreal, almost more than my mind can process, when I step through to find Duffy tied to a chair in the center of the room, a gag stuffed in his mouth and a trail of dried blood leading down from his nose.

His eyes meet mine. One is nearly swollen shut. But the other is clear. And in it is resignation. I don’t doubt for a second that a man like him knows that the likelihood of his meeting a bad and untimely end is extremely great. Few men get to see death coming. But this one does. The second I stepped through the door, he had to know that his life is over. Without Cash here to stop me, I can take the revenge I’ve waited seven long years to take.

Cold metal touches the skin of my right palm. I glance back to see Dmitry standing behind me. He’s pressing a silencer into my hand. After all this time, he knows what kind of gun I carry and what kind of suppressor will fit it.

I take it from him and toss it on the floor.

“No. I’m doing this my way.” I bend just enough to reach into my boot and bring out the long, wickedly curved knife that I always keep stashed there. I hold it up and turn the handle just enough that the razor-sharp edge of the blade glints in the low light. “I’m going to slip this between his ribs and push it into his traitor’s heart so I can watch him bleed until there’s no life left in him. I want him to know a small part of the pain I felt when he blew my mother to bits in the marina that day.”

I walk slowly toward him, taking in every detail, savoring every sweet second that leads up to the only thing I’ve thought about for all these years. I had begun to think I’d never have my revenge. But today, I’ll get it. Today, I get to be free of the hatred.

I stop in front of Duffy, my fingers squeezing the knife hilt so tightly my knuckles ache. I look down into his one good eye and I’m confused by what I see there.

It’s peace. This is a man who has come to terms with his life. And with his death. He’s ready for it. Possibly even eager for it.

And that’s when I see her.

Marissa.

She’s not in the room, but she might as well be. Her presence is that tangible. I feel her as though she’s standing right in front of me, touching my face. I can picture her beautiful blue eyes. And the tears that are spilling from them.

I feel the warmth of her fingers grow cold just as the image fades. And just like that, it’s gone. She’s gone.

I find myself at another crossroads, much like the one I felt in New Orleans. On the one side is Marissa. On the other side is . . . everything else.

If I go through with this, there will be no coming back from it. Every man I’ve killed in the last seven years has been out of self-defense. I’ve never taken someone’s life in cold blood.

I’m smart enough to know that this will change me. This will be me turning a corner I can never come back from, making a choice I may or may not be able to live with. It will cement my future in ways that I won’t be able to change, like the fact that I’ll have to leave this country. I’ll be a hunted man for the rest of my days. And I could never invite Marissa into a mess like that.

The Nash who’s standing here right this minute has a few possibilities in front of him. The Nash who puts a knife in the man who murdered his mother won’t. I’ll have one option. To run.

“Nikolai?”

It’s Dmitry, wondering what I’m waiting for. He’s handed me all I’ve ever wanted on a silver platter. And I’m hesitating.

With a pounding pulse, I realize it’s not all I want anymore. I want a life. A real one. With some of the normalcy I haven’t had the luxury of enjoying for the last near-decade. Maybe even a life I can share with someone. Maybe . . .

I don’t want to get ahead of myself. And I don’t want to make any rash decisions. In need of some clarity, I turn away from Duffy and walk back into the other room.

“What’s the matter with you? Isn’t this what you want? Since I’ve known you, it’s all I’ve ever heard you talk about.”

I look at Dmitry, at his troubled blue eyes. Is this what’s bothering him? Was he afraid I’d chicken out? Or was he afraid I wouldn’t?

For the last many years, he’s been like a father to me. He’s protected me as much as he could in the life I was forced to lead and, in some ways, I think I was the family he never got to have. He’s me in another twenty years if I go down this road. But do I want that? Do I want that life? Is the satisfaction of taking the life of the murderer in the next room worth it? Worth becoming a murderer myself?