I nod and settle into the seat, watching her until she pulls the accordion door closed, still staring long after.
Regardless of how it started, I’ve officially become obsessed with this woman, and I’ve inserted myself into her life because of it.
I blindsided myself with a deep-seated connection once again.
All I can do now is hope I hide it better than I did the last time this happened. Falling in love with Liv is just as dangerous as it was with Dimitri, and she has a full-blown arsenal to prove it.
CHAPTER 4
LEON
PASSENGER - DEAFTONES
“That’s it. Be a good little pet and keep using your credit card.”
I zoom in close, watching my target through the lens of my Canon EOS R7 as he taps to pay for the tank of gas I know he needs.
I need one as well but I’ll fill up once he leaves. As long as he keeps using that rectangular piece of plastic, I won’t have any trouble finding him, even after he has a bit of a head start.
Dimitri Volkov pulls a cellphone from his pocket and I quickly change to my RF 100–500mm lens, zeroing in on the screen and his fingers as he taps away. I hold down the shutter button and let it rapid fire, taking as many photos as I can in hopes of figuring out our final destination.
Not that I actually need it.
I was hired to find this deliciously scarred alpha by his father, who gave me explicit instructions toeliminate the traitor and bring back his body, meaning I was to kill him on sight when I found him. I’m so good at what I do, it only took me a day and a half to locate him but that was nearly two weeks ago and I’ve yet to pull the trigger.
Instead, I’ve found myself rather captivated by the grumpy asshole, and the urge to claim the bounty on his head has faded to static noise against the impulse to figure out why he’s running.
At first I believed I just wanted to fuck him.
Dimitri is very good looking. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome: six-foot-four, roughly two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle. Inky black hair kept just shaggy enough to curl around his ears and nape of his neck. Crystal blue eyes. Well, one is crystal blue. The other is completely clouded in milky white swirls and usually under an eyepatch, the surrounding olive-toned skin of his socket, orbital and cheek bone covered by what looks to be some sort of burn scar. My guess is from a type of explosive. His features are sharp, very defined, and the bit of scruff on his face adds to his overall appeal.
I think I’d prefer him clean shaven, though, but only because I can tell the lack of shaving is somehow connected to why he’s running from the very Bratva he was set to inherit.
When Boris contacted me, I wasn’t expecting the mark to be his own flesh and blood. I’ve worked with him before, when he had a job he didn’t want connected to his organization, or when his men failed to produce the results he was after. The crotchety bastard pays well, very well, and he’s always kept his word about allowing me to remain a ghost, a myth amongst our circles no one has been able to give merit to.
I’ve never turned down a job he’s offered me but this is the first time he’s managed to surprise me.
Of course, I graciously accepted the bounty on the lovely little target’s head but the mystery surrounding him is really what sold me on things.
Another reason I assumed I merely wanted to fuck Dimitri and would be able to get on with killing him after the fact.
There’s more to it than that.
Not to say I won’t jump at the chance to find out if the prodigal son is a top, bottom, or switch if it presents. I’m not that unstable. He looks like he could be a lot of fun in the sack, a real rough and tumble kind of guy, but again, I could have made that happen long ago if that was all my curiosity was about.
It isn’t, and for the first time since I’ve been professionally hunting, I’ve let myself become invested in more than the payout.
Lowering my camera to my lap, I watch as Dimitri finishes filling up his car and heads inside the gas station.
When I received his file, I read about three different vehicles he would most likely be driving; a black Audi A7, a black on black Cadillac Escalade-V, or a Kawasaki Ninja H2R. In black, of course. Was Dimitri driving any of these when I found him? No. As a matter of fact, I caught him coming out of a junkyard in Mays Landing, New Jersey, driving a beat to hell F-250 from the early 1990s. The same one he’s driving now and frankly, I’m shocked he’s been able to keep the thing running as we’ve made our way along the most fucked up route to God knows where.
I’ve followed Dimitri through ten different states since that junkyard. Ten, including my home state of Kansas and now Iowa, and I think we’ve avoided the most logical and straight shot in and out of every single one.
It makes no goddamn sense.
My brow arches as I lift my camera again, looking through the windows of the rather happening travel shop in Clive, able to clearly see the alpha purchase his fourth burner phone of the trip so far.
Something is telling me I’m going to finally need to plant a tracker on his truck.
