Heart of Steel - Meljean Brook [99]
She finally fell back, sweating, her body still shuddering. Then Archimedes climbed into the bunk, and she was wrecked.
Lying on his back, he hauled her over his chest, her limp legs straddling his thighs. His hand swept her body, soothing, pleasing. He kissed the wet from her eyes, but he didn’t kiss her mouth, didn’t fuck her, he simply stroked her skin until sweet lethargy weighed her down like opium.
“You’re an idiot to love me,” she whispered.
“Am I?” He didn’t sound convinced.
“Yes.” She drew in his scent, so strong and warm. “But, still—it is a fine thing, to be loved.”
And tucking her face against his shoulder, she slept.
Yes. It would be a fine thing, to be loved.
When they’d made their agreement in the Charging Bull, Archimedes hadn’t lied when he’d told Yasmeen that falling in love with her wasn’t a game. But until now, he didn’t know how wrong he’d been.
He had been playing a game. A game of luck, a game of chance, with his heart as the stakes, deep emotion and heartbreak the prize—and he hadn’t known what any of that meant. But he’d had the smallest taste of it when she’d opened that door, and he never, ever wanted to feel like that again. So he could continue on, trying to feel every single emotion, and finish the game broken and poor.
But now that he was in love with her, Archimedes simply wasn’t playing anymore.
Chapter Thirteen
Yasmeen stirred when Archimedes slipped out of bed, but she didn’t lift her head. He didn’t bother with his boots or a jacket, and picked up his dagger from the cabin floor. Silently, he made his way to Ollivier’s door and inside.
With a single bunk and room for a small desk, Ollivier’s cabin was more spacious than theirs. The man slept on his side, facing away from the door. Archimedes slid his dagger against the man’s neck, nudged him awake. Ollivier opened his eyes, his hand moving beneath his pillow. Archimedes let him feel the blade. He froze.
“Put your hands on your head, Mr. Ollivier. Very good. Now, stand up—Nuh-uh! Hands still on your head. There you go. Let’s take a walk, have a little drink together.”
In a nightdress that came to his knees, Ollivier was silent until they reached the door. Then he tried for outrage. “This is an affront to my dignity, Mr. Fox. If you don’t want to share the credit of the find—”
“There’s no find yet, Mr. Ollivier. Now close your mouth until we reach the stateroom, or I’ll cut out your tongue.”
Archimedes wouldn’t, actually; the whole point of this was for the man to talk. A toe would do just as well. A finger. The head of his prick—which, apparently, had begun dribbling piss during the short walk to Hassan’s stateroom.
On second thought, the tongue would be fine. Ollivier could write his answers.
He wasn’t surprised to find Yasmeen already in Hassan’s cabin, heating a pot of tea over the small gas burner. How had she fastened her boots so damn quickly? Obviously Archimedes would have to practice.
“Sit here, Mr. Ollivier,” Hassan said, gesturing to the chair opposite his. “I thought we might have some tea.”
Shaking, Ollivier sat.
Hassan poured his cup. “You’ll forgive me if I only watch. My French is poor.”
“A scream for mercy sounds the same in any language,” Yasmeen said, sliding the teacup across the table. “Did you make it strong, Mr. Ollivier? His nanoagents fought off the poisons, but what about you? What would a sip of this do?”
“I don’t know what you’re speaking of.”
Yasmeen smiled.
“Very well.” Ollivier wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “What is it you want to know?”
Archimedes took the chair next to him. “We want to know why.”
“Because I was hired to.”
“By whom, Mr. Ollivier?”
The man was breathing hard, sweating. “I