Crowed (Team Zero #2) by Rina Kent

His hands roam under my T-shirt. The tips of his fingers ignite my skin. Heat smothers me and pools between my legs. My arms tighten around the toned muscles of his abdomen. I can’t get enough of touching him or being near him. I know it’s wrong, but what did right bring me?

So against all logic, against everything that’s common sense, I drown in whatever this is. I couldn’t care less about the consequences, because for the first time in a long time, I feel alive.

Alive... what a strange word that is.

Crow pulls away to give us much-needed air. Before I can catch my breath, he flips me so I’m on my back and he’s on top of me. I gasp. The ground is hard, but all my attention is on the man hovering above me.

The hard lines on his face mirror the unexplainable sensations pulsing through my body. I can’t help admiring the tattoos on his neck and touching the ones on his thick biceps.

Crow pushes my legs wide with his knees and settles between them. The bottom of my stomach throbs and clenches into a wild void. A void that can only be filled by him. My head swims in a chaos of emotions. Lust. Confusion. Fear.

Nothing camouflages my feelings. No numbness. No cowardice. Although a part urges me to run away from whatever this is. However, the piercing look in Crow’s icy gaze keeps me in place.

I don’t want to run away from him. At least not now.

So I do a bold move I’ve never done in my life; I reach out, clutch him by the shirt, and seal my lips to his again. I want him to breathe life into me because ever since we met, he’s been doing it so well. His presence always destabilised my equilibrium.

In an exhilarating way.

A hot tongue licks my leg. Wait. Crow is kissing me, so who’s licking my leg?

I break the kiss – no matter how much I hate to – and look down. Charlotte is slapping wet licks on my calf, trying to get my attention.

“The fucking dog.” Crow sits back and narrows his eyes at her. “What the fuck are you doing here, Cheerio?”

I burst into laughter, sitting up to take Charlotte in my arms. She whines, and I swear that she’s glaring at him.

“Cheerio?” I ask.

“It’s less pussy than Charlotte.” He pauses. “More importantly, did she just cockblock me?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “I guess she did.”

“No fucking way.” He reaches out to take her from my hand, but something vibrates. His phone.

He points a finger at Charlotte. “This isn’t over, Cheerio.”

I can’t help smiling when she huffs in response.

Even Crow appears a bit amused, but then, he checks his phone, and his expression closes. He stands, features darkening and posture straightening. He’s no longer the playful Crow, the sexy Crow or even the mean Crow.

His eyes are no longer sparkling with mischief. They lose their gleam and turn dead. Completely devoid of any sense of life.

I’m looking into the eyes of a killer. Someone who doesn’t even remember his name or his family because his entire existence revolved around ending people’s lives.

Even if he didn’t have a choice in becoming a murderer, he still is one.

A chill ghosts up my spine. I carefully stand and hold Charlotte close to my chest as if that will help me stay away from him.

I can’t believe I disregarded the killer side and kissed him with all that passion.

A part of me, a screwed stupid part, doesn’t care and would do it again if given the chance.

That part is an idiot.

“We’re going back,” he says in a detached tone, throws his phone in his pocket, and straddles his bike. He’s staring ahead, not even waiting for me to join.

I strap Charlotte in the helmet case and position myself behind him. The engine revs beneath us, and we hit the road. There is tension in his shoulders underneath my fingers as I cling to them. Although I’m still slightly scared by riding on this terrifying bike, all I can think about is what changed his mood.

Now that I think about it, Crow never mentioned who shot him that day. Why is he in France in the first place? Why did he have that seizure? Is it because of the mysterious drug in his bloodstream?

Countless questions and no answers.

Crow doesn’t kill the engine once we’re in front of the house. He stares in the distance, waiting for me to descend. I stand by the side of his bike, but the questions I want to ask don’t come out. Or more like Crow doesn’t give me the chance to ask anything.

He says, “Later,” and drives out of the gate, taking the road to town.

Shoulders sagged, I carry Charlotte inside, a million questions crossing my mind. The most important of all is: just what type of person is Crow?

It’s strange how much I want to know everything about him. If only I could push his buttons like he does mine.

Why would I want to push his buttons, anyway?

Instead of pondering on that, I decide to be useful. I stare at my house, my ancestors’ house, my family’s heirloom.

It’s time to do something about it.



*****



Renewed energy pulses through my veins even after I scrub the entire ground floor. I stand at the threshold, staring at the shining cupboards and the not-so-shabby walls. But some of the wallpaper needs remodelling. For once, Papa’s picture isn’t staring at a dirty place. His little smile is overlooking a decent, clean reception area.