Dark Tide, page 19
Cutter wasn't happy about the plan when Rion told him only a short time ago. Valentina seemed skeptical but at least open to the possibility. Warwick just scowled and said we better figure something the fuck out. And Preacher just kept trying to hack the FBI mainframe to see if he could get any reports.
I wish I could've given them a way in—one that might have given us a way out. But at the same time, I don't know that I would have. Not when I don't know what they would do with all the information.
The names of agents. Investigations. Informants.
I would love to believe that they would be honorable about it. That they wouldn't give it straight to Valentina to use to improve her strength in Chicago or take out any enemies.
But I don't know that. And while I may not want to see Rion hurt, I don't want to see anyone else hurt, either, especially not the good guys. Because Rion and his crew are not the good guys. I need to keep reminding myself of that. They may not be all bad, but they’re still criminals. They’re still killers.
And now, as Rion and I travel down the two-lane highway on the way to my apartment, the silence in his truck makes my skin crawl.
We've never had awkward silences. Never had awkward anything together. It's always been so…easy between us.
So damn easy.
So easy to fall into his arms.
So easy to fall into his kiss.
So easy to fall into his bed.
So easy to fall in love with him.
Shit.
And that's just what I've done.
I didn't want to acknowledge it. I tried so hard to tell my heart that it wasn't actually feeling that, but I'm willing to sacrifice my goddamn career for this man. That's not just about feeling guilty for what I did. It's so much more than that…which is absolutely terrifying. Especially since he has every intention of leaving me in the dust once the danger to them is gone.
That’s crystal clear.
Every mile we get closer to my apartment, my window to fix things closes a little. If I don't say something now, I may never get the chance to because something tells me he won't want to be in a room alone with me anytime soon.
Can I blame him for that? Really, can I?
After everything I did to him, I can't. No one could blame him for being angry and feeling betrayed. I did betray him by not telling him the truth as soon as I figured out who he was.
“I’m sorry.” My apology breaks the silence.
He peeks at me with hard eyes before refocusing on the road. His focus remains on the road, and he doesn't acknowledge what I just said.
“I know you may not believe it. But I am. I'm going to regret ever taking this assignment for the rest of my life.”
“Was I so bad?” His question cuts the tension but slices at my heart at the same time.
“No.” I bite back a sob.
How could he even ask that?
Everything we shared was real. I was real with him. There was no reason to be anyone else. I just don’t know that there are words capable of making him understand it.
“I regret it because I hate how I hurt you. And there's no taking it back. And I know you'll never forgive me and that even if we make it out of this alive and stay out of prison, we’ll never be together again.” I swipe at the tears now freely falling down my cheeks. “I'm not stupid enough to believe that will ever happen, but I just need to make sure you understand…that you know and that you believe me when I say that it wasn't all a lie.”
His hands tighten on the wheel, his knuckles whitening under the ink there as he pulls into my apartment building and throws it in park. He shuts off the engine and drops his head back against his seat, clenching his eyes closed. “You're not making this very easy, Gabriella.”
“Making what easy?”
He huffs out a sigh and shakes his head. “Never mind. Get out.”
I open and close my mouth several times, trying to find a response, but the hard set of his jaw and flash of anger in his eyes tells me if I don't move, he’s going to drag me out kicking and screaming if he has to.
He wants me gone.
He has nothing else to say.
I swallow through my regret and push open the door. With my hand ready to push it closed, I pause and take one last look at him. “As soon as I know anything, I'll call.”
He keeps his gaze focused forward, at some random point in front of him—anything not to have to look at me. “Don't come back to the warehouse. It's not safe. You could be followed at any time.”
Don’t come back. Message clear.
“I won't.”
And I won't see you again.
It goes unsaid, but the final look he gave me when he would still meet my eyes tells me it's true. Whatever we figure out in the future, he's going to make sure he's not the one who has to see me if anyone needs to meet. He’s going to stay as far away as possible, like I have the fucking plague and plan to infect him.
Maybe I do. Maybe I am a plague. I snuck into his life and brought with it danger and pain. And if things go down as badly as they might, I could even lead to his death.
I close the door as tears trickle down my cheeks. Then fall onto the concrete, and I rush up to the second floor of my building. I twist my key in the lock but don't even have time to push the door open.
Heavy footsteps echo down the hall toward me. Rough hands grab my shoulders and spin me around before pushing me back against the door so hard I only have a second to register it’s Rion before his lips capture mine in a harsh, violent kiss.
One of his hand grips my chin, holding it in place while the other finds the doorknob and turns. We fall back into the living room, and he kicks the door closed behind him then walks me back toward the bed.
Anyone who says anger can't be an aphrodisiac has never felt this kind of ire. The all-consuming, mind-stealing, soul-crushing kind of rage we both have right now.
Rion at me for what I've done.
Me at myself for the same.
For betraying my colleagues. For falling in love with a criminal.
All of it.
It annihilates all sense of reason. It fuels the base needs in us. The ones animals—especially man—seem to have no control over.
Our tongues lash against each other, and the back of my knees hit the mattress. We tumble backward onto the bed, and he issues a low grunt of pain.
I drag my mouth away from his. “Shit, I'm sorry. Are you—”
“Shut the fuck up.” His mouth seizes mine again, stealing any further question as he crushes his hard cock against me and grasps the hem of my shirt.
He drags his mouth away only long enough to force the offending piece of cloth up and over my head before he descends again, taking my breath.
My hands fumble with his belt, and I push down his jeans. He kicks off his shoes and pants and pulls back to yank his shirt off while I scramble out of my yoga pants and thong.
Whatever pain he's feeling from his injuries after the explosion, it's been replaced with endorphins and blinding lust. He bears down on me like a runaway freight train.
Things between the two of us have always been hot and heavy. Not exactly slow and sweet and loving but this…this frantic rush, this pent-up fury mixed with need is so heady, I almost come before he even touches me.
When his hand lands between my legs, I groan into his mouth. He shoves two fingers inside me, finding me wet and ready just like I have been since the second he threw me back against that door.
He removes his hand from me and grabs his dick. I spread my legs, and he positions it at my core and shoves into me with one vicious thrust.
“Oh, fuck!” The pleasure mixed with pain only heightens the rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.
Every brush of his skin against mine…every grind of his pelvis…every thrust of his hard cock inside me…they all ratchet me higher and higher.
He devours my mouth, desperate for something that I can't seem to give him. Whether it's answers or forgiveness or something else, I may never know, but in this moment, we’re both taking what we need from each other during what is most assuredly our last time together.
Rion fucks me like a wild man, gripping my hips and driving into me with fierce, brutal thrusts. His fingers bruise my hips while his lips bruise my mouth. I wrap my legs around his back and cling to him.
He pulls out of me suddenly, something dark flashing in his already black eyes, and flips me over. “On your knees.”
I scramble onto all fours, and he shoves back in again so hard, he rocks me forward ‘til my face hits the mattress. His large hand grabs my hair, and he twists it around his wrist and drags my head back, forcing me to look at him.
His jaw clenched.
Cuts and bruises from the explosion still marring his face.
Ink swirling up his neck and across most of his exposed flesh.
He looks every bit the pirate—pillaging and taking what he wants.
But he’s so much more than that.
Orion Gates is a dark tide. One that sneaks in under the cover of night. One that you never see coming. One that steals everything you love and holds you hostage until it drowns you.
He tugs on my hair again, jerking my head back even farther as he slams into me.
Rion may be dark and dangerous. Rion may be all kinds of wrong, but there's nowhere else I want to be in this moment. Even as tears trickle down my cheeks and fall to the bed beneath us. Even as my heart shatters into a million pieces. Even as I want to completely break.
My orgasm slams into me. No long, slow build like some of the other times we spent together. This one is just like Rion—completely unexpected.
I gasp and squeeze my eyes closed as pleasure courses through my body, and I jerk on his driving cock.
“Fuck, sugar.” He powers into me even harder, something I didn't even think possible, dragging out my orgasm until he cries out and empties himself inside me.
His hand in my hair relaxes, and he collapses on top of me, both of us panting heavily. Warm breath flutters the hair on the back of my neck, but there isn’t any soft kiss or romantic touch.
Whatever the hell that just was, it's never gonna happen again. We both know it. The future is full of unknowns right now, but on that…we can agree.
27
Rion
Gabriella passed out before we were forced to have any awkward after whateverthehellthatwas moments. Ones where either one of us might say something that we don't mean.
What the hell was I thinking?
A smart man would have stayed in the truck. A smart man would have driven away from that apartment and that woman and never looked back. A smart man would have kept what she did to him in the forefront of his mind to keep himself from chasing after her and fucking her brains out.
I’m clearly not a smart man. I’m the stupidest kind on the planet. One who fell for a fraud. Let her get under my skin and work her way into my head and my heart when I clearly didn’t know her at all.
It’s no wonder I didn’t crash on the drive home. After I climbed from her bed and stared at her sleeping for far too long, I dressed and fled like a damn thief. I don’t even remember driving back—it’s nothing but a blur of roads and turns.
Fuck. This is so fucked up.
I slam the door on the truck and storm around it toward the warehouse. The guys will be waiting for me. I’ve been gone far too long to have just dropped her off. I never intended to fuck her. Killing her was more to the top of the possibilities list than sticking my cock in her. But I just couldn’t stop myself.
Now, I’ll have to pay the price. I shove open the door to the warehouse and make my way toward my room. I need to get out of these clothes and away from her fucking scent. I need a scalding-hot shower to wash away the feeling of being wrapped up in her…of having her wrapped around me. I need to get her out of my fucking head, or I'll never be able to concentrate on anything again.
Cutter appears in the doorway of the kitchen. “You all right?”
Stupid fucking question.
No one could be all right after what just went down—here or at her place. Both were total mind-fucks, and the emotional and physical drain of it all is just too much. My body vibrates, muscles tense and straining in my skin. Things will erupt if I don’t do something about it.
I give him a curt nod and push past him into the hallway. His footsteps follow.
Fuck! Can't he just leave me alone?
He probably wants to know how we left things in terms of the next move.
I stalk past Preacher’s open door without bothering to look inside and glace back at Cutter. “She’ll be in contact as soon as she can find out anything.”
He continues to follow me down the hall, like a lost puppy seeking affection, even though that’s far from his motive. “Are you okay?”
Jesus Christ.
I wheel around on him with clenched fists. “Do I look fucking okay to you?”
We both know he doesn’t care how I’m feeling right now. He’s not a damn psychiatrist hoping to offer assistance in my time of mental anguish. If anything, he’s only added to it recently.
He crosses his arms over his chest. “No.” His eyes scan me from top to bottom—disheveled hair, wrinkled clothes—not to mention the smell of Gabriella and sex that must be wafting off me. “You look like shit.”
And he knows I fucked her.
It's written all over his face, even behind the goddamn glasses. The judgment. The condemnation. It’s all there.
Cutter is anything but subtle, and he certainly isn’t trying to hide anything right now.
“If you have something to say, Cutter, just fucking say it already. I don't have the patience for this today.”
He holds up his hands and shakes his head. “No, man. We're good for now.”
For now.
I know exactly what that means. As soon as things start to go a little sideways again, he's going to be right up my ass.
The man is relentless. It’s what made him absolutely lethal at his job, but it’s also what makes it so damn hard to be friends with him. Mix that with his ever-present chip-on-his-shoulder attitude and it’s a combination you don’t want to be anywhere near. I’ll never understand how Valentina tolerates him.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I shake my head. “I can’t deal with you right now, Cutter. I can’t deal with any of you. Just leave me the fuck alone if you know what’s good for you.”
I whirl and yank open the door to the bathroom. It slams behind me before he can say anything else.
A long shower and then a bonfire outside to destroy these clothes—that’s on the agenda for tonight. Then I’m drinking a bottle of Jack and passing the fuck out.
Hopefully, not to dream about her.
Morning comes far too soon and with far too many regrets.
What happened with Gabriella.
How much I drank.
It all swirls together to create the perfect storm of shame and nausea.
I sit on the edge of my bed and groan, burying my face in my hands to try to stop the room from spinning. I’m still in the jeans and shirt I wore last night but don’t even remember coming to bed. All I remember is sitting out on the beach, watching the light from the lighthouse break across the water while I drank. A lot.
Fuck.
My door flies open, and Preacher rushes in, his eyes wide. “Good. You’re up. Get into my room.”
He rushes out before I can even react. It’s way too fucking early, and I’m too decimated by the events of the last couple days to do anything more than climb back into the bed.
“You look worse than I do.”
I jerk my head up at the sound of E’s voice. “Jesus, I didn’t even know you were back.”
He leans against the jamb, a massive bandage across his neck where they fixed the tear in his artery. “I got back last night while you were out…” he waves a hand around, “doing whatever it was you were doing.”
“I assume the guys filled you in on all the excitement.”
“Excitement?” He raises an eyebrow and snorts. “Is that what you call your girlfriend being FBI?”
“Fuck you, man.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “We better go. Whatever’s going on, Preacher is all worked up.”
This can’t be good.
I lumber up from the bed and follow E down to Preacher’s room where Cutter, Valentina, and Warwick are already waiting. Preacher practically bounces up and down in his chair while Milo snoozes next to it.
He waves a hand over the front of the computers. “I'm in.”
Cutter raises an eyebrow. “Huh?”
Preacher grins and points to the screens again. “I'm in. I'm in the fucking FBI system. One hundred percent. Anything and everything is within our reach.”
Holy shit. He did it!
We all rush forward to stand behind him and stare at the screens, though absolutely none of us have any idea what we’re looking at.
War claps him on the shoulder. “Holy shit. Great job!”
“Yeah,” Preacher’s smile falters, and he sobers, “but I just found something you're not gonna like, Rion. And that may impede our little plan with Gabriella.”
The mere mention of her name is enough to sour my already uneasy stomach. “What's that?”
He clicks on something, and a document pops up on his screen. “A warrant for her arrest.”
“You’re fucking joking.”
Preacher shakes his head. “I wish I were, man. They've charged her with conspiracy and are trying to get an indictment on other charges.”
Warwick leans down to read the screen. “You’re shitting me. Why?”
I can’t even find words. This has to be a mistake. The warrants should be for us, not for her. “I don’t get it. What can they possibly have as evidence?”
Preacher highlights a section on the document. “From what I can tell by looking at some other interoffice memos and the indictment, after she had her conversation with Robert at the hospital, he told her not to let Rion leave. They wanted to talk to you as a witness in the bombing. By ignoring his order and helping you leave, she essentially disobeyed an order from her superior officer and let a crucial witness and person of interest go.” He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “He’s probably just trying to use it as leverage to get her to talk.”
