The Heiress and the Hitman

Chapter Seven: WOUNDS AND WHISPERS

The question hangs in the silence like a lit fuse.

Nicolai’s eyes are still heavy-lidded, his pupils wide with the same raw hunger that had him shirtless and kneeling between my thighs minutes ago.

His bare chest rises and falls in slow, controlled breaths, the scars on his skin catching the low light like silver threads. He hasn’t moved his hand from where it rests high on my thigh, fingers splayed possessively over the silk of my nightgown, thumb brushing the lace edge of my thong in lazy, deliberate circles.

“I want to taste you, Aria,” he murmurs again, voice rough as gravel.

My body answers before my brain can catch up... thighs clenching, a fresh pulse of heat blooming low in my belly, n*****s tightening painfully against the thin fabric. I’m still aching from earlier, slick and empty, every nerve screaming for the relief only he could give. But the tattoo on his arm burns behind my eyes like a brand. Dagger wrapped in thorns. The same tattoo the shooter had. Get a grip Aria... He's still a killer. My pulse roars so loud I’m sure he can hear it.

His thumb stills. The haze in his gaze clearing just enough for concern to flicker through. He pulls his hand back slowly, like he’s handling something fragile that might shatter. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says quietly. “I pointed a gun at you mere minutes ago... I don’t blame you if you’re still scared of me. I don't know what's wrong with me. Everything in my head is warped... Everything except you."

The words lands soft, almost tender. It twists something in my chest. What was wrong with me? I'm only playing a part... The moment the lockdown ends, I'd bolt out of here and turn him over to the police.

“I do want to,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop it. "I want you. It’s just…” My eyes drop to the back of his head. Fresh blood has soaked through his curly mass of hair, dark and spreading. “You’re bleeding... Badly.”

He reaches back absently, fingers coming away red. He stares at them like the injury is an afterthought. “I'm fine. It’s nothing.”

“It's not nothing! You hit your head really hard." The concern in my voice startles me. "You’re losing blood, Nicolai. You shouldn’t even be standing.” My voice cracks. “We need the first aid kit. There’s more gauze, antiseptic and proper bandages upstairs. In the bedroom.”

He studies me for a long beat, then nods once. “Lead the way.”

I slip off the couch on unsteady legs, the silk whispering against my thighs. Nicolai follows close behind, heat radiating off his bare skin, close enough that I feel every exhale against my neck.

At the top of the stairs, the bedroom door is locked. A temporary seal engaged from the system's security lockdown. I grip the handle and rattle it firmly. It stays shut. “I thought it'd somehow be open by now. Maybe we should try—”

Before I finish, Nicolai steps forward. With his good arm he grips the handle, plants one foot against the frame, and yanks.

Wood splinters. The doorframe groans. The lock gives with a sharp crack and he shoves the door open like it’s paper.

I stare at the ruined frame, my heart slamming. A casual display of brute strength... It was a terrifying reminder that this man could break me in half if he wanted to. And he might still want to... once his memories return.

He glances back at me, almost sheepish. “Sorry. I didn’t feel like waiting.”

I swallow hard and step inside.

The bedroom smells like me. Jasmine from the diffuser, clean linen and the faint trace of my perfume on the pillows. A king-sized bed dominates the space, the sheets still rumpled from when I’d waited here earlier tonight, expecting Marcus. Now it feels like a trap I’ve walked us both into.

Nicolai pauses just inside the doorway, taking it in. His gaze sweeps the room. The vanity cluttered with makeup and jewelry, the walk-in closet door ajar, the framed photos on the dresser. He moves slowly, like he’s trying to trigger something in his fractured mind.

I grab the first aid kit from under the sink in the en-suite bathroom, hands shaking as I return. “Sit,” I tell him, pointing to the edge of the bed. He obeys without argument, perching on the soft mattress gingerly.

I kneel between his legs. Ironic, given how he’d been the one on his knees minutes ago. I tilt his head to the side gently. The gash at the back of his skull is an ugly sight. It's even deeper than I realized and still oozing. I clean it with antiseptic wipes, ignoring the way his thighs bracket mine. The way his breath hitches when my fingers brush his neck.

He doesn’t flinch once. He must be carved out of granite or something.

I wrap fresh gauze around his head, securing it with medical tape. My hands linger longer than necessary, smoothing the bandage. His eyes are closed, but when they open again, they’re darker. Hungrier.

“This is our bedroom." He says slowly, it's not a question but a realization. “Where we slept. Together..." I swallow nervously, my traitorous brain finishing the rest of his sentence in my head. It's where he touched me... Where he f****d me. In his non-existent memories that is. Why then do I find myself longing for those memories? It's definitely the alcohol. I need to stop drinking.

Heat flares through me again, unwanted and unstoppable. I nod, throat tight. “Yes.”

He stands slowly, forcing me to rise with him. Then he begins to wander. His fingers trailing over the dresser, he picked up a silver bracelet, an old present from Marcus. He sets it down and stops at the nightstand and lifts the old porcelain doll sitting there. Pale face, black ringlets, faded blue dress. One of the few things I kept from childhood.

“Who’s this?” he asks.

“That creepy old thing... It belonged to my sister,” I say fondly."I used to have nightmares as a kid back when we still shared a bedroom. She got tired of my screaming and shoved it at me one night hoping it would work. That was years ago. I guess I never got rid of it.” The memory leaves a painful feeling in my chest.

"Did it work?" Nicolai's asks, His grey eyes boring into me. "The Doll."

I chuckle "Well, I stopped screaming at night. Mostly because I was too terrified of the darn thing to fall asleep."

Nicolai stares at the doll for a long moment. Then his expression changes and something sharp and sudden flickers across his face.

He sets the doll down carefully, like it might break.

"Are you hurt?" I ask carefully. Perhaps I tied the bandage on too tight.

“Did I have a sister?" his voice is calm and quiet.

The question hits like a slap. I freeze.

As his “wife,” I’m supposed to know. Supposed to have shared every secret, every memory. But I don’t know if he had a sister. I don’t know anything real about him except the fact that he was sent here to kill me.

“I…” My mouth opens, closes. “I don't know... You never spoke about your family.”

His eyes snap to mine. The haze of desire quickly replaced with something much colder. Doubt. The same doubt that had him raising the gun at me earlier.

“You don’t know,” he says slowly. Not accusing. Not yet. Just… realizing. “For a married couple, there's an awful lot we don't know about each other...”

Panic claws up my throat. His memories are surfacing too fast. Fragments slotting into place like puzzle pieces I never saw coming. If they return fully before the lockdown ends. If he remembers who he really is, why he came here then I’m dead. No more games. No more lies. Just the assassin finishing the job... Dread settles like lead in my stomach.

He steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the antiseptic on his skin and the faint metallic tang of his blood. His hand lifts and cups my cheek while his thumb brushes my lower lip.

“It seems...” he murmurs. “that you know as little about who I am as I do.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “You're the only thing that feels right somehow. But now I'm not sure if the you in my head is real… or if I’m just desperate to believe she is.”

My heart stutters.

He leans in, forehead resting against mine. “I hope I'm wrong,” he whispers. “I hope you’re really mine like you say.”

I can’t speak. Can’t even breathe.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers threading into my hair. Not pulling. Holding. Like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I don't know what I'd do, Aria.” he says softly. Dangerously soft. “If I discover my pretty little wife has been lying to me.”

The room spins. Desire still hums under my skin... traitorous and insistent but the terror is louder now. His grip tightens fractionally. His eyes search mine, stormy and fractured.

And in that suspended heartbeat, I realize my time was running out faster than I thought. I'd have to do something drastic. I'd tried playing devoted wife. Now it was time to go on the offense...