Equal Parts (30 page)

Last night, I’d expected him to try and seduce me all over again, but instead he’d surprised me by dressing me in a pair of his pajamas, pulling me against him under the covers, and asking me all kinds of questions about my childhood. After his thirst for knowledge was apparently quenched, he wrapped himself around me and we fell asleep.

But now, with the temptation of his skin so close, and with the possibly of Molten coming for us looming over our heads, rest was the last thing on my mind.

It must have been a similar idea for him as well, because before I knew it, he’d locked my legs around his hips and sat me on the desk behind him, sending the papers and melee weapons to the ground with one swipe of his arm. Clutching his collar, I pulled him down with me, well aware I was spread out like a feast for him on that table.

“Christ, girl,” he groaned as I ran my fingernails along his spine, up under his shirt. “If you wanted to bring me to my knees, all you had to do was ask.”

I was past the point of conversation – hell, I could hardly form words past the hungry haze clouding my vision. I kissed him deep enough to make him buck into my core, the sign of his arousal obvious through his suit pants.

“I want you,” I told him in a husky voice that sounded nothing like me.

“Good.” He sucked on my lower lip until it swelled. Suddenly my T-shirt was gone, his hands stripping it off me without much effort.

I tore his shirt down its front, glad for the pop-buttons it possessed. Soon enough his skin was pressed to mine, his mouth working down my body as his hands made short work of my cotton pants.

“Protection?” I managed to gasp through the fire coursing through my body. Happiness poured from his soul straight into my skin, and I returned it straight back.

“Your wallet,” he answered against my sensitive skin, pushing the object in question into my palm, the colored foil wrapper in his own.

I laughed, unable to stop it. Of course, his hands traveling further south on me soon had the laugh catching in my throat. Within minutes I was melting into the table, fist against my mouth to muffle my cries of delight.

“What are you doing to me?” I asked breathlessly when his mouth and hands returned to where I could see them.

His grin was slightly tilted as the paint on his face was smudged. I blushed at the thought of where the rest of that paint was. “Same thing you’ve been doing me for a while now, darling.” With one thrust, he was embedded in me, and we both groaned at the sensation. He nipped at my lips. “Driving you insane.”

Well, he certainly delivered what he promised. I was on the brink of madness within another five minutes of agonizingly slow loving. Even his kisses had slowed to languid, torturous movements against my mouth.

When I thought I could take no more, and was legitimately about to start begging, his rhythm changed dramatically, his hands suddenly pinning mine above my head, arching my chest into his. I’d never felt more vulnerable, but I’d also never experienced such intense pleasure. I trusted this man with my heart – why wouldn’t I trust him with my body as well?

As if he knew the significance of my compliance, his fathomless eyes met mine. “I love you, Felicity.”

It was so sudden, so unexpectedly heartfelt in a moment of absolute passion, that I went to pieces in his arms. “I love you, Achilles,” I managed to whisper as I fell.

He followed me into bliss, until we lay entwined, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, our heartbeats racing in tandem.

After what seemed like an eternity, I turned to face him. “Did you mean it?”

“Did you?” he countered.

A tense moment before we both answered, in perfect unison, “Of course I did.”

Grinning like the idiots we were, we righted ourselves once more, my cheeks filling with color when I realized the door had been unlocked the entire time. I glanced in the mirror above the fireplace to find black paint smeared across my lips, down my neck, disappearing into the collar of my shirt.

“Now,” said Achilles, laying the weapons and papers back on the table I’d just been on, “you need a weapon. I was thinking more of a blunt, easy one than a gun, or something that might be used against you
–”

“Hold up.” I spun from the mirror. “You seriously don’t think we should address us using the ‘L’ word?”

Those massive black eyes blinked blankly. “Why? Did I say it wrong?” Smirk.

“I just … it’s a big step. Right? Most guys would be running for the hills right now.” I wasn’t freaking out, though, and I doubted I would be any time soon. I loved Achilles. He loved me. It was simple, really.

As always, we were on something of a similar mental level. “Remind me again how I’m like
most guys
.” Clicking the last buttons of his shirt, he strolled up to me, his fingers immediately clasping my chin. “I’m never going to be the poetic type when it comes to this stuff, Flick, but I don’t just say things for no reason. I love you, okay?” His thumb rubbed against the paint on my lower lip. “Don’t get too much of an ego, but you’re kind of my everything.”

My breath caught in my throat. I was expecting a half-hearted joke – I got a full-hearted declaration instead. “Back at you,” I whispered, cupping his cheek with my hand. His paint cracked a little under my touch.

For a single, perfect moment, the façade of Achilles faded to reveal the true recipient of my heart underneath. Despite the paint, the contacts, the air of indifference, I could see right through the disguise; Henry Westwood was closer to the surface than I’d thought.

“Here,” he said, snapping us both out of the suspended minute. I looked down to see he’d pressed a
sewing kit
into my palm. “Innocent but deadly. Like you.”

I opened the felt kit to discover a range of knitting needles, scissors, and other sharp objects.

“What’s this for?”

“
I trust Hugo, but since the day you showed up at the police station, I have trouble putting your life in the hands of the others. Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you know it
.” Pressing a last kiss to my forehead, he pocketed the remaining weapons – two butcher knives, a hammer, a wrench,
a lighter,
and a screwdriver.

“Achilles?” I asked.

He stopped in the doorway, waited.

“Be careful. I have a weird feeling about this.” I didn’t want to nag, but I couldn’t help but think Molten might have been a step ahead of us on this one.

He turned long enough to show me a disbelieving smirk, then disappeared up the stairs, leaving me to wash the paint from my appearance and wait.

Hugo and I waited by the window in the front room, looking out into the gloomy street. Darkness had fallen quickly, and a chill had set into my bones since Achilles’s departure an hour earlier.

“You’ll have to get used to this, kid,” commented Hugo, taking a swig of cheap beer. “Waiting up for him, I mean. Something tells me he won’t be quitting his day job any time soon, especially if this thing with Molten goes smoothly.”

“Warning?” I asked with a wry grin.

“Advice,” he corrected.

The more I thought about Hugo’s sudden words of wisdom, the more I realized just how right he was. Achilles wouldn’t be giving up a life of crime for me, wouldn’t be joining the forces of justice any time soon. Right now, that didn’t seem so bad. But what about when I wanted to go to college? Or get married? Or have children? Did he have any of those priorities planned out, or was he simply content to live a life free of responsibilities?

Save it,
I told myself.
Save it until he gets back. No point worrying yourself about it.

“Can you tell me the story of how you came to work for Achilles, Hugo?” I asked, warding off my concerns with conversation. “Just to take my mind off other things.”

He grinned broadly, as though he’d been waiting for that question for a while. Stretching out on the sofa, he told me, “Standard mid-life crisis story, only a little more extreme. I was sick of teaching high school brats, wanted a change of lifestyle. At first I considered buying a yacht or something, you know. One day, though, I was at the City Museum on a field trip with the school. We’d just finished rounding the kids up onto the bus when I heard this massive explosion, like, the kind to make your head spin.”

Three guesses where this was headed.

Gulping down the last of the beer, he continued, “I ran toward the building, looking for survivors, but turned out everyone had been evacuated a few minutes earlier. People were going mental, screaming and running around; all I could hear were sirens and flames. Then, out of the smoke came this figure, like some kind of ghost. Back then, of course, nobody really knew who Achilles was. But
I
knew. This was a man who liked adventure, who liked to live on the edge. I can’t explain it – I just knew, you know? I knew this was the change I’d been looking for.

“So, I went up to him. I know, I know,” he added, seeing my horrified expression, “I swear to God, thought he was going to bash my head in with that hammer as soon as I introduced myself. But he didn’t. He just shook my hand, said it was nice to meet me, told me to be at some café the day after. Like he
knew
what I wanted from him. Next day, I found myself handing in my resignation, and since then … well, haven’t looked back.”

Silence filled the spotless room for a minute, then I had to ask, “Do you regret it?”

He blew out a breath. “Sometimes. I miss the routine, I guess. But that’s also one of the things I
don’t
miss – it’s hard to explain. This life is so … hardcore. Dangerous, yeah, but exciting, too.” His dark eyes studied me through the dim lighting. “Sound familiar?”

It did. My life as Old Felicity – living each day in perpetual boredom, grieving for something irretrievable, keeping my happiness locked away – was over. But, like Hugo, I missed routine. I missed the security of knowing who I was and what my life was about. Achilles had opened my eyes to a new style of living, but I wasn’t completely sure I wanted to live on the edge with him.

“You should talk to him about it,” said Hugo, sensing my worries. “I’ve never seen him act as rational as he does with you.”

And that was a problem in itself. If Achilles was having an effect on me, what kind of effect was
I
having on
him
?

The screech of car t
ires outside broke my train of
thought. Squinting through the dying sunlight, I saw a familiar black Jeep skid to a stop in the driveway. My breath came out of me in a rush, relief crushing my lungs. Thank God. That bad feeling I’d had about this whole thing had just been paranoia.

Achilles climbed down from the front seat, and I caught a glimpse of someone in the passenger side, but they didn’t get out.

“The hell? Achilles never drives,” said Hugo from behind me, peering through the curtains. “Where’s Rodrigues?”

That wasn’t the only odd thing in this picture. Red streaks patterned Achilles’s cheek and neck, a stark contrast to the white paint beneath. He picked the hammer from his belt as he stalked towards the house, his body stiff and rather robotic. His face expressionless, his teeth bared in the dim light.

Then I noticed that his collar had been torn open at the side, exposing the sun-kissed skin of his shoulder.

And the crushing panic came flooding back.

“Molten got to him,” I gasped, scrambling away from the window. “Hugo, his skin!”

Three seconds, and Hugo got my meaning. Wide eyes turned to face me. “Out the back door,
now
.”

There was a knock at the door. One of the other thugs in the kitchen moved to get it.

“No!” shouted Hugo and I simultaneously, but it was too late – the door had opened, and suddenly, with a
thump
, the man was on the floor, blood gushing from his skull. I vaguely registered the raw scream tearing from my throat.

“Shit! Shit!” Hugo hauled me under his arm and pushed our way to the laundry. “Everybody out!”

Shouts and curses resounded from behind us, but I didn’t dare look back. Holy crap, holy crap,
holy crap
. This was like something out of a nightmare. What the hell had Molten done to get Achilles to kill his own men?

I didn’t want to know.

Hugo and I reached the fence in the backyard, but Achilles was faster than I remembered. I turned to look at him across the lawn. He’d stopped moving, but there were no signs of life from inside, and I hoped to God he’d only knocked them out.

“Achilles, stop,” I said in a shaky voice. “You have to fight this!”

“Felicity,” he rasped in a voice that wasn’t quite his own. “Run!”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I darted to the side gate, Hugo right beside me, pulling out my cell phone as I went. This was definitely not something I could handle on my own.

Achilles stalked towards us, that wolfish grin on his blood-splattered face. Hugo gave me a boost over the fence, and I punched in Finn’s number.

“I’ll try and stop him,” said Hugo, looking back over his shoulder. Achilles seemed to be trying to slow himself, trying to dig his own feet into the grass, to no avail.