The Dark Elite (The Dark Elite 1)

I blush, barely restraining my fingers from reaching up to brush over my bruised lips. I can still feel Zaid’s kiss. I can still feel Hale’s fingers.

I wish like fuck that I couldn’t.

“Well? Could you at least turn around?” I demand, my voice harsh and strained as I work to shove down memories I don’t want.

The look on Lucas’s face is enough to say he’s not planning on moving an inch, and irritation rushes through me. He probably has heard about my escape attempt with Zaid and doesn’t want to risk it. Or they don’t trust me enough to even let me get dressed without monitoring.

I turn around myself, so that at least he won’t be able to see everything while I change.

But he sees enough.

As I quickly slide off my shirt and replace it with the sweater, I can feel Lucas’s gaze trailing down my spine, lingering on my hips and legs. I shift sideways a little as I pull off the tight jeans and underwear, trying not to give him any more of a show than he’s already getting.

I toss the old clothes aside with relief, glad to be getting rid of them and the memories they hold. They still smell faintly of musk and amber—of Zaid and Hale.

I swear my whole body flushes at the thought, and the temperature of the room skyrockets, but I try to push the resurgence of feelings aside as I pull the new jeans up and over my thighs. I wonder for a second if they bought these clothes specifically for me, or if they’re leftover from their last captive.

My lips curl in a bitter grimace. Probably the latter. Maybe I should consider myself lucky that she was my size, whoever she was.

“Look… this isn’t my place, but just don’t push Hale right now,” Lucas says suddenly, startling me out of my thoughts. “He’s got a lot on his plate at the moment.”

I turn around to face him, my eyebrows pinching together. A flare of something hot and almost painful blooms in me at his words.

“Oh, and I guess kidnapping old friends is one of the pressing matters on Hale’s plate?” I bite out.

He stiffens, his lips pressing together. “You know it’s not like that. It’s not that simple.”

I open my mouth to retort, to throw his words back in his face, but I’m interrupted by the door opening. Ciro walks in, and Lucas steps aside to give him space. I know before he even reaches me that the broad-shouldered, silent man is here to check on my wounds, so I prop one elbow on the dresser and lift up the edge of my sweater, my skin cooling at the shock of cool air that hits it.

Ciro looks at me as if to ask permission, and I nod, wondering what’s changed in him. In some ways, he’s the most gentle of the men, the most careful.

So why does he scare me so much?

He slowly peels off the bandage and sets it aside, dabbing a bit of antiseptic on my stitches. His thumb brushes over the area where the bullet penetrated me. The wounds where the bullet entered and exited ache, and the flesh is pink and angry looking, but I can tell they’re healing well, thanks to his work.

Looking down at him as he tends to my injuries with complete focus, I almost want to thank him… but I can’t. The words are caught in my throat. I don’t want to give in to any of these men. To be grateful for any part of this.

To see them as anything other than monsters.

Compared to Hale’s burning touch, Ciro’s hands are gentle as he finishes bandaging the wounds, never lingering longer than he needs to. I glance between the top of his head and the quick work he makes with his hands, ripping off two pieces of medical tape and smoothing them over the gauze that covers my wounds.

Ciro catches my stare with his gray eyes, passive and blank. I hold his gaze for a split second before it becomes too much, then hastily pull my attention away. I can’t bear the change I see in him. It’s strange and unnerving, and it makes my chest ache for some reason I don’t quite understand.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I ask suddenly, and for once, the words sound as small as I feel. Scared.

Ciro’s hands freeze at my waist, tensing. His fingers flex softly, squeezing my hip for a second before he draws away and grabs the tape again. He resumes his work without a word, and I redirect my stare toward Lucas, begging him to answer the question.

But the blond man’s face reveals almost as little as Ciro’s—just a flicker of something behind his eyes that I can’t interpret. I wish I could pretend he cares about me, that he has any concern for what befalls me beyond how it affects his precious syndicate, but I know he doesn’t.

I’m just another mission to all four of these men.

“I’m not sure,” he finally says.

At Lucas’s words, Ciro rips the tape violently, and I get the sense he has his own storm brewing inside of him.

But when the storm breaks, where will the lightning strike?

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