Seth opens the bathroom door and steps out into the main room.
I stand up and follow him, glancing once more at the crate in the tub. Sophie’s chin trembles as she fights to keep her nose above the line.
I flip the bathroom light off and close the door.
Seth walks toward the bed where our clothes are laid out for the party. He picks up his shirt and looks over at me.
“Time to crash a party.”
Chapter 47
Seth
Brooke stands in front of the mirror while she changes, and the red halter dress slides into place. It fits her a little too well, the fabric clinging to every curve. She is really testing every string of restraint I have left by wearing that while we are on a kill mission. The sight of it pulls up the memory of that other dress she wore before.
Almost two years ago. A crowded club with loud music and cheap liquor. Brooke stared at me while she danced with some idiot.
I couldn’t remember his name now. I honestly didn’t give a fuck.
I killed him not long after that. The timing was unfortunate for him, and his judgment was worse. You danced with the wrong woman once and suddenly your life expectancy dropped to zero.
The dress still irritates me a little when I see it again. That memory never quite fades. At least this time she is walking in with me, not grinding on some asshole’s dick.
She pulls the wig on carefully, adjusting it until it sits just right. The hair is a deep chocolate brown, cut with bangs that soften her face and shift her features enough to make her unrecognizable.
I lean against the dresser and watch her make small adjustments in the mirror. The disguise works.
“You good?”
She nods once. “I think so.”
I step in behind her, close enough that my chest brushes her back. Her eyes stay on mine in the mirror as I slide my hand beneath the hem of her dress.
“Tell me if this gets distracting.”
She lifts her chin a fraction. “It already is.”
My fingers trace the back of her calf and move higher, following the line of her leg until the silk gathers under my knuckles. The dress rides up as I guide my hand along her thigh, my thumb pressing into warm skin before I reach the holster strapped tight against her. I check the buckle first, then the strap, testing the tension. My palm lingers, heat bleeding into me, and I adjust the angle with care.
“You tighten this yourself?”
“Yes,” she says as her body reacts.
I slide my thumb along the inside of her thigh and tug the strap once more, slower this time. “You did fine, I just want it perfect.”
“Of course you do,” she says.
I lean in closer, my mouth near her ear. “If you have to draw, it needs to be clear and clean. No fumbling.”
“I won’t.”
I guide my hand higher for a final check, just enough to feel the tension in her muscles, just enough to make my pulse spike. Then I withdraw, forcing distance back into the room even though my body protests.
“Same rules,” I meet her eyes in the mirror. “You stay close. You don’t wander. If anything feels wrong, you look at me.”
She turns her head and faces me fully, confident beneath the heat. “I always do.”
I lift another car from the airport garage without anyone noticing, which says more about money than security. It is a dark graphite Mercedes S Class, understated in the way only truly expensive cars are. Quiet enough that you can forget how dangerous it really is.
