The Dark Elite (The Dark Elite 1)

Disgust.

Resentment.

Hell, maybe I’d be safer with strangers. There’s too much baggage between me and these men, and I can feel it infecting the very air around us.

The mattress shifts as Ciro sits on the bed ne

xt to me. I make a move to scramble away, but his hand clamps around my uninjured wrist. His expression doesn’t change one bit, and his grip isn’t tight, but his hand seems to engulf my wrist, making me feel tiny. Vulnerable. Breakable.

Without even uttering a single word, he’s issued me a warning.

“I need to check your stitches,” he says, releasing me once he sees in my expression that I’m not going to move. He leans over and grabs the box he brought in, then pulls out antiseptic and a fresh roll of bandages. “You were shot.”

As if summoned by his words, pain flares in my side, along with a vivid memory of the bullet tearing through my skin.

Right. No wonder my whole body fucking hurts.

I lie still and try to control my breathing as Ciro lifts up my shirt and peels the bandages away from my side. His fingers are deft and sure, moving confidently as if he’s done this dozens of times before.

He probably has.

“It’s going to scar,” he notes absently, setting the discarded bandages aside.

“Yeah, I know. I’m not an idiot, Ciro,” I whisper. It’s meant to be a taunt, but I’m too weak for it to have much bite. And I suppose I should take it as a good sign that he thinks I’ll be alive long enough for a scar to form.

The room goes quiet as he works. Zaid and Lucas stand sentry from the foot of the bed, watching with their arms crossed over their chests. They’ve fallen into almost the exact same pose, something they used to do all the time when we were younger—like they were bookends, mirror images of each other.

I thought it was charming then. Now, it just makes me hate them more.

Ciro doesn’t seem bothered by their steady stares. He works quickly, disinfecting the stitches on both the front and back side of my abdomen before reaching into the box and pulling out some large gauze pads.

I can’t help but stare at him too. I don’t know what the hell to think of him. He’s always been the quiet one out of the four men. Only now, his quietness is different. Unnerving. It’s almost as if he’s empty inside, void of any emotion. His lethal silence terrifies me more than any show of power Zaid or Lucas could ever pull.

In fact, he scares the shit out of me.

“That’s new.” I swallow, then point to the tattoo on his right forearm. I’m not sure why I’m bothering to talk to any of my captors, but the silence is making my skin prickle. “It’s… nice.”

He looks down at his arm as if he’s forgotten the piece of ink is there, gazing at the dark tattoo that’s been added to the full sleeve of ink on his right arm. It’s a black snake, covered in white roses, coiling around his arm. It actually is beautiful, but if it has meaning, I know he’s never going to tell me. As frequently as we used to be in each other’s company, I was never close with Ciro. Only close enough for me to know that he’s an extremely private person.

I don’t have time to blurt another pointless comment, because a second later, the door slams open again and Hale walks in. A bolt of tension follows him into the room, as if he’s brought a fucking thunderstorm with him.

“What the fuck is going on?” he demands, stalking toward the bed. He stands to one side of where Ciro is sitting, towering over me like an avenging god. “Look at me, Grace. I want fucking answers. Now.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Goose bumps break out over my skin as fear and anger war inside me. Ciro finishes with my bandages and slides out of the way, leaving no barrier at all between the furious man glowering down at me.

“You know exactly what I mean, smartass,” he says. “Your dad was up to something, wasn’t he? What the hell kind of shit was he into?”

“Nothing!” I scoot away from him on the mattress, but Zaid moves to block the other side of the bed, trapping me between the four of them. Fuck.

“Really?” Hale cocks his head, his dark blue eyes burning. “You were always a daddy’s girl, Grace. You really expect me to believe he didn’t tell you anything?”

“There’s nothing to tell.” I swallow, my scratchy throat dry as cotton. “He isn’t into anything. He has a good job at a bank. He pays his fucking bills. He’s just a normal guy.”

“Was.”

I blink. “What?”

“You said he is, Grace.” Hale’s voice is hard. “But he’s fucking dead. He isn’t anything anymore. Everything you’re telling me is what he was.”