I rip open the envelope left by Ronan and pull out the contents. My stomach rolls when I seehisface. No, this can’t be right. A five-by-eight surveillance picture of Declan fucking O’Dea. Last I knew, Declan was one of Ronan’s most devout disciples. It doesn’t make any sense.Why?I look for answers in the file, but there aren’t any. There’s barely any information at all. Just Declan’s face and the name Aisling.
I assume that’s his latest babe in the woods. Another love casualty claimed by Declan O’Dea. Ronan doesn’t want her dead though—at least not by my hand—so that makes me believe she is significantly valuable. Can’t wait to find out why.
The thrill of the impending hunt makes my blood pump. The thought of the kill warms me with a sick satisfaction, and also a nauseating regret.
Confliction is a killer’s number-one enemy.
I wouldn’t exactly call the job upsetting, though. Declan and I may have had some fierce sexual chemistry, but that’s where the buck stopped. Even if he did know how to sing like an Irish fucking nightingale.
He knew all the right things to say and exactly how to say them. And that is deadlier than a loaded weapon pointed straight at your temple. Magically, he seduced me into letting my guard down. Not my finest moment, I’ll admit. Prideful wounds are some of the most painful to lick. But I won’t make the same mistake twice. With anyone. Alone is better than vulnerable any day of the week. And my beliefs are what keep me alive. Keep me protected. Nothing is going to jeopardize my livelihood.
Nothing and no one.
I’ve worked too hard to get where I am. Come too far.
I say who and I say when.In sex, love, and murder.
Which is why Ronan’s proposal is weighing so heavily on me. He’ll want to take away all the privileges I’ve worked so hard for. It’s inevitable, even if he denies it.Even if that’s not his intent.
At the end of the day, a man like Ronan commands, controls, and regulates.
And me and rules just don’t mix.
I stuff the papers back into the envelope and shove it in a kitchen drawer.
I don’t want to deal with this right now. With any of it. Not with Ronan, or Declan, or the shitty position I find myself in. My life was so much simpler twenty-four hours ago.
Dressed in a fierce black tank top and matching yoga pants, I leave to meet March. I need to clear my head, and beating the shit out of something will surely do the trick.
I try not to think about Declan or Ronan as I jog the six blocks to the gym. But I can’t stop myself from wondering why all the men in my life have to be so fucking complicated.
With the exception of March, of course.
The only thing he complicates is my work schedule.
Climbing the six flights of stairs to the gym entrance, I find March already shadowboxing in the ring. Nitro is an ultra-modern “workout lounge” with a knockout view of the Empire State.
When he isn’t in the club, this is March’s second favorite place to hang out.
“Well, the prodigal daughter miraculously appears,” March jabs in my direction. “I called you like twenty times last night, after you so rudely dropped the mic on me.” His snarl shines through.
“I didn’t drop the mic.” I climb into the ring, ready for a fight. My skin feels like it’s prickling with a needlepoint tension. “I had an unexpected visitor.” I throw a punch, and March expertly dodges it. Like it was nothing. Like it was just a whiff of air.
“Visitor? Do tell.” He lifts his wrapped fists, ready for combat.
“It’s not important.” I attack, throwing a punch-jab-kick combo.
March blocks like the pro he is. I’ve gotten in my fair share of fist fights over the years, and he has always been my toughest adversary. He’s taught me so much since I got into this unique line of work, and one of the most important things is to fight with your head before you fight with your fists.
I’m clearly not taking his advice ’cause all I want to do is physically assault him until either he or I is bloody.
I go after March again, full-force this time—kicking, punching, sweeping, kneeing—basically just pulling out every trick I have in my hat. I’m winded and sweaty within minutes, and March is, no surprise, holding his own. He’s dressed in his usual sleeveless sweatshirt and gym shorts. His loose, curly locks are damp with sweat, his buttery-brown skin is dewy with perspiration, and his big, amber eyes are alight with challenge.
And not just a physical challenge. He wants to know every detail of last night, and I am just not ready to talk.
“The fuck it’s not important.” He hits me with some wicked hand combo that takes my full concentration to defend.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
