The Dark Elite (The Dark Elite 1)

“Ciro,” I whisper, releasing my grip and resting my hands on the mattress beside my head. I’m no longer touching him at all, although our body heat still intertwines between us. “Stay with me. Please. I don’t want to be alone.”

He blinks, his brows drawing together as he focuses on me for a second. He licks his lips, as if he can still taste me on them. Then he nods once, the movement jerky and strained.

He rolls away from me on the bed, lying next to me. The six inches between us feels like a cavern of years apart, of changed lives, but I don’t move any closer.

This is all he can give right now.

All he can take.

And it will have to be enough.

Neither one of us speaks again, and as we lie in silence, I let the steady sound of his breath lull me away from my tormented thoughts.

Just before sleep pulls me under, I feel the gentle brush of his hand against mine, light as a butterfly’s wing.

17

Grace

A sound outside the room wakes me.

It’s dark, and only a few small slivers of light pour into the bedroom from around the edges of the curtain. I roll over unconsciously, still half-asleep as I seek out the comfort and warmth of Ciro’s body.

But the space next to me on the bed is empty.

I’m not sure how long I was asleep, but he must’ve slipped away sometime after I passed out. I’m filled with a sudden ache, wishing he trusted me enough to stay with me. I doubt he even let himself fall asleep like I did.

Vigilant. Always vigilant. On guard against any threat.

Another muffled crash that seems to come from down the hallway jerks me from my thoughts. And as I come fully awake, it hits me suddenly that I just rolled over.

I’m not bound. I’m alone, and my hands are untied.

I don’t know why the hell Ciro left me like this. Maybe he just couldn’t bear to touch me again, even to tie my restraints? Maybe he felt pity for me?

The why doesn’t really matter. The only important thing is that I’m not tied up.

Another noise outside makes me glance up, my heart jumping in my chest. It’s a muffled voice, heavy and full of emotion.

Hale’s voice.

I stare at the bedroom door and then the one that leads to the bathroom, knowing there shouldn’t be any debate in my mind. I’m unbound and unwatched—there should be no thought in my mind other than call Brian and escape.

But for some reason, I hesitate.

My bare feet hit the soft carpet as I peel the covers back and stand. Then I creep toward the bedroom door and test the handle.

Unlocked.

The hallway is empty, but the sound of a deep voice muttering harsh words draws me down the hall to another door. It’s cracked open a few inches, and a soft glow emanates from the room. Chewing on my lip, I peer through the crack, my heartbeat nearly drowning out another string of indecipherable words from inside the room.

It’s definitely Hale.

His back faces me, hands perched on the desk. His head hangs between his shoulders, fingers tapping the desk in frustration. He mutters a curse under his breath, reaching for the bottle of whiskey on his desk.

He’s drunk.

“Never fucking prepared,” he murmurs, and I freeze as I finally pick out the words he’s saying. He’s not talking to me, but I can’t move. “Never enough fucking information.”