Ghosted (Team Zero #3) by Rina Kent

I clasp his shoulder. “There are more missions ahead of us that only you can do.”

His gaze snaps my way. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Besides, I didn’t take Celeste with me when I did those hits for the Russian mafia, did I?”

He smiles, eyes twinkling. “Damn straight. We had so much fun with those Russians. We should go back, Godfather.”

Ghost had fun. That’s not me anymore.

Kyle’s gaze falls on my wrist. “Ye’re bleeding.”

“It’s dried.”

Kyle’s nose scrunches up. “I’ll clean it for you. Then, we drink?”

I shake my head. “I need to sleep. It helps with the ringing in my head.”

He smiles again, but this time, it appears forced. “Night, Godfather.”

With a wave, I head to the safe house and up the stairs, already tugging on the now-red bandage. I reach into my pocket and pop three pills, then swallow them dry. Paracetamol helps with the throbbing in my head if I take it before sleep.

My movements halt at the threshold of my room. Elle is sitting on the edge of the window, staring at the distance.

I’m surprised she returned by the deadline I’d given her. I figured she’d stall until the last minute, and I would have to throw her over my shoulder and drag her back kicking and screaming.

My gaze rakes up her body. She’s still in that short dress that reveals half her back and the most sublime, toned legs. She’s barefoot. She removed her shoes, and they’re left on the side of the window. One of her legs dangles off the edge.

No idea what she sees in the trees surrounding the safe house, but she’s completely engrossed that she doesn’t notice my presence.

Or maybe I’m too quiet.

Instead of announcing myself, I continue watching her.

I’ve been doing that a lot lately. Watching from afar. Every smile and every move she’s made is engraved deep in my memories. I told myself it’s because I don’t trust her and I need to keep an eye on her, but that reason is beginning to fade. Particularly since I confirmed she doesn’t work for President Joe.

I don’t watch women.

Especially not a fireball who boxes and attracts more attention than I like.

She should be none of my business, but the moment Kyle or Shadow touch her, there’s this urge to break their wrists. I shouldn’t be thinking about hurting my best friend or my godson for a woman.

A nobody as Mist said.

Because that’s exactly what Elle is; a fucking nobody.

If only she remained in the category.

I stalk towards her until her sweet cherry scent, and some other flowery nonsense Scar makes her wear, hits me. Elle’s hair is pushed to the side, her neck on display. The pale skin appears soft and even fairer under the moonlight.

My fingers twitch to touch her and feel that addictive pulse jump under my fingers.

I shove my hand in my pocket. “Are you trying to fly, Firefly?”

She yelps and slips – about to fall. I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her back. She turns around in my hold, arms encircling my back tightly. Her legs aren’t even touching the ground.

Her soft curves press into me. The swell of her full breasts, her flat abdomen and toned legs are intimately twined around me.

My erection surges to life.

Damn.

My arm remain awkwardly at my side. The need to hug her back pulses through me, but if I do it, if I wrap my two arms around her, I have an intuition that I won’t let her go anywhere.

Fucking nowhere.

That’s not a complication I need right now.

As if realising what she’s doing, Elle pushes back. Her body heat leaves mine with a jerk. The compulsion to grab and pull her back is becoming harder to ignore.

“Would you stop sneaking up on people?” She adopts her firm tone, but the crimson tint in her cheeks isn’t entirely due to anger.

“No.”

She scowls. My lips twitch. No idea why, but I like seeing those fired-up expressions.

“What...” She gulps, pointing at my hand. “What happened?”

“An accident.”

“Do accidents make you bleed from your bandaged wrist?” she asks in a nonchalant tone, but I can smell her fishing for information like a curious kitten.

“In our world, accidents happen all the time.” I yank the soaked bandage free and reach for the first aid box from the wardrobe. I sit down on the bed and throw the box open. I search for a clean bandage and start rolling it on the cut over my wrist.

Elle plops in front of me and snatches the bandage.

“What are you doing?”

“You’re supposed to clean that first.” She reaches into the first aid box and grabs a bottle of alcohol. With meticulous movements, she disinfects the wound and straps on a plaster, then wraps a full bandage around my wrist. She’s done this before.

The idea that she did it for another man causes a foreign part of me to jolt. So I choose to believe she did it because of her boxing.

Silky strands of her hair fall on either side of her face. My free hand clenches and unclenches as I fight the urge to push away her hair and get a better look at her. Check if her pulse is regular or heightening like mine.

But she told me not to touch her, so I keep my hands to myself.

For now.

The tips of Elle’s fingers glide over my busted knuckles. She needs to stop doing that or I will flip her underneath me.