Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force)
Read Codename: Nightshade (Deadly Seven Strike Force) Online
Authors: S Anderson
S.E. ANDERSON
Copyright 2015 by S.E. Anderson
All rights reserved.
This book is dedicated to Sebastian Stan. You may never read this, but your badass strut and metal arm swinging inspired it. So thanks.
Beware the
Daeva
, young one.
Not all that glitter
s is gold.
Not all that sounds lovely is true.
Not all ghosts are dead.
“You’re avoiding my question.”
Nikolai rolls the stem of his wine glass between his forefinger and thumb. The red liquid looks like blood as it swishes around. He stares at the wine and not me as he speaks. “I already told you my decision,
Poppy
.”
Poppy.
Damn
.
He knows that pet name gets to me. “Don’t play the ol' I’ll-melt-her-panties-along-with-her-mind trick on me,” I say. “Answer my question.”
He puts the glass down, smoothing his hands along the pristine white tablecloth. His steak and potatoes with fresh garden vegetables has gone untouched since the waiter delivered it thirty minutes ago. The silverware isn’t even out of place.
A heavy sigh escapes his lips as his eyes finally meet mine. “I’ve told you I’m going. Told you what my mission will be. This is my decision. What more answer do you require, Penelope?”
Penelope.
Now he’s using my name as a taunt. Not cool. “Nothing, General Zolkov,” I say, shoving my chair back for a dramatic exit. “Enjoy your mission
and
your decision.”
He shouts my name across the small restaurant, is still shouting it when he follows me into the street. A blast of freezing air slaps me square in the face, and my high heel hits a slippery patch of ice, making my retreat less than as flawless as I had hoped. A strong hand grabs my elbow before I fall face first onto the dingy cement.
“
Poppy
.”
Damn him and his smooth Russian accent that caresses my skin as his arms wrap around me. I’m tough. I’m a fighter.
I don’t need him.
He exposes the side of my neck to the same icy air that’s making my spine shiver. Maybe that’s not the wind. Maybe it’s
him
. I never feel weaker than when I am in his arms. Ironic, since he’s the one who trained me to be so strong.
I feel the burning warmth of his breath against my skin a second before I feel his lips. It’s a stark contrast to the harsh winter weather around us. He presses pleading kisses over and over into my flesh, whispering apologies and saying
Poppy
as if somehow that’s going to make this all better.
“You’re leaving me,” I say, silently cursing the tears blurring my vision.
“Only because I have to.”
I shake my head. I’m out of words, out of a legitimate argument as to why I think he shouldn't go. He told me everything about the mission. It’s not an actual assignment so much as it is a favor. His friends back home in Russia need his help fighting some new invisible threat. I know this hits him hard, square in the chest. I know he believes this is his responsibility to fix.
And I know that he won’t back down from any fight he believes he can win.
But I've got a bad feeling about this.
“Let me come with you,” I offer, anticipating him shooting down the idea as soon as it’s from my lips. “I can fight, too. I can—”
“No,
Poppy
,” he says, forcing me to turn and look at him. “I need you to stay here. Stay safe.”
He’s a tough bastard, Nikolai Zolkov. Hardened soldiers shudder under his cold, calculating stare. He stands nearly seven feet tall with a frame that dwarfs me in comparison, but as he looks into my eyes right now, he’s small, vulnerable.
Damn him and his
I-trust-you-with-my-vulnerabilities
bullshit. He knows I can’t fight that.
He brushes his thumb against my cheek. His black eyes travel the features of my face, lingering on my lips so long they part with anticipation of his kiss. A smirk turns the corner of his mouth as he returns his eyes to mine. “I need to know that you’re safe, or else I won’t be able to fight this war.”
“But I’m a solider, too,” I argue, pressing my cheek into his touch. “You trained me well. I’m the best in my class—”
“You are,” he agrees, cutting me off again. “And I have no doubt that you’ll annihilate any threat that comes your way. But just this once, actually listen to your teacher.” He smiles as I groan, bopping his finger against my nose. I hate when he does that. “Don’t go looking for a battle to prove yourself,
Poppy
.”
“This isn’t about that.”
He arches a condescending brow that I want to smack off his face.
“This isn’t
just
about that,” I amend. “You say you can’t fight knowing that I’m not safe, and I need you understand it
kills
me to know you’re in danger and I can’t do anything to help protect you.”
His eyes tell me he understands, but he’s out of words, too. So instead of responding, his lips press against mine, and time, for the moment, slows down.
I’m reminded of the first time we kissed. I still contend that it was an accident on his part. He claims I had finally worn him down.
We were in the barracks, training. He’d kicked me so hard that I was doubled over, trying to catch my breath. He didn’t do it often, but that time he broke his hard façade to ask if I was okay. I exploited the moment of weakness and grabbed him around the neck, tackling him to the mat. He laughed, tumbling our bodies around until I was pinned beneath him. In ten seconds flat, I went from almost winning to being trapped.
“How did you do that?” I grumbled with a full-on childish pout. “I had you.”
He bopped his finger to my nose with a smirk. “You hesitated.”
I wanted to dispute it. I never hesitate. But then this thing happened. A force passed between us. Electric and exciting, I felt his weight pressed against me and our shared humor melted into something else. He leaned down just as I tilted my head up and our lips met.
I’ve been his ever since.
I’m under him again now, his hot lips moving in tandem with mine, his hips thrusting in a rhythm that’s driving me insane. I don’t know how we got back to the hotel, don’t care what concession I’m making by doing this with him now.
Damn him. Damn what he does to me.
He’s taught me how to disarm every other opponent. I can resist anything except for his touch. His words whispered between pants of pleasure are the only words I can’t dismiss as lies. His fingers slide along my body, dipping between us at just the right time to send me over the edge.
How does he do that? How does he know me so well?
I might as well be the gun he carries on his missions. He knows how to strip me down to my soul, take me apart, and put me right back together. He can aim me, never missing his target, as he controls me with his skilled fingers.
“I love you,” I confess.
He stops, still buried deep inside of me. His heart is racing against my fingertips. I caress the red flower tattoo on his chest. I can smell the red wine on his breath.
He stares at me then. Hard. His eyes are pools of darkness. So much focus and intensity is in his gaze that my throat goes dry. He doesn’t say anything. He just rolls over, taking me with him so I’m on top.
It’s a symbolic gesture that I recognize. He’s giving me the upper hand, giving me all the power in the fight. It’s not surrender, but it is a stolen moment of weakness—
hesitation
.
I know this doesn’t change anything. I know his mind is set. I fell in love with a stubborn man, and I wouldn’t want him any other way, to be honest.
I take what he offers, take every inch of him. My lips, my words, and my touch make him come undone. I hear it in the abandon of his moans; I see it in the strain of his sculpted muscles.
We make love until neither of us can move and then we stare into each other’s eyes until unconsciousness claims me.
He’s gone when I wake. A lone red flower, a poppy, lies on his pillow.
A promise.
He’ll be back.
A confession.
He loves me, too.
