If I were a stalker, I’d be a damn good one!
Shredded, taped documents from Atlas’s art money laundering prove how thorough I’ve been. They tie directly into the arms-dealing empire he stands to inherit.
I pull the nearby trash can and unpin them from the board, ready to burn any evidence before putting my plan in motion.
But enemy intel isn’t enough. Knowing his allies is every bit as important.
At least that’s what all thoseThe Art of Warquotes for goodnight and battle accounts in lieu of fairy tales taught my brother and me.
Atlas’s friends, or as I call them,my besties... unaware and from afar, are all over the board.
My attention lands on Lincoln Cavanagh’s picture, taking a look at the notes below it.
Hacker.
The gang’s well of information.
Closest to Atlas.
Obsessed with Raven.
“You’ll get nothing real on me, Link. Nothing but the fact I’m an orphan,” I mutter, trying to reassure myself that my cover runs deep enough. Besides, Link’s too busy chasing after my best friend to notice anything else. Raven’s going to kill me when she finds out I’m alive and I haven’t contacted her.
I unpin Link’s photo and all the notes, focusing on what’s left there.
Connor and Carter Heyes.
Exchanging girls like Pokémon cards with their twin-swap thing.
Chuckling at how they almost made me lose faith in mankind, I crumple that note and clear the board of them, along with everything on Dean.
I pause on a single piece of intel before tossing it.
Dean’s family is in symbiosis with him.
Him!One of the two men I’m truly after.
And Atlas . . . he’s my ticket.
Taking his photo, I stare at those full-of-mischief dark eyes. Do I apologize in advance for the misery I’m about to drag into his life? Or punch that pretty face?
“I’m sorry. I really am,” I whisper, and for a second his eyes seem less threatening. “It—” I stop myself from uttering “it isn’t personal”when he won’t see it that way.
Ripping the picture in half to stop it from staring back at me accusingly feels like the first piece I’ll snatch from him. Attention, sharp and sudden.
Tearing the place where his insufferable smirk lives marks the next step. Desire.
I yank along the line of his broad shoulders, the split giving way to control.
Then the commitment piece gives, sounding like a lock clicking shut.
A scrap clings to my thumb before I crush it. Devotion.
And trust? The stacked pieces I try to tear apart resist. Stubborn fucker. Trust is the hardest part of this slow heist designed to steal his love. Not because I want it. I need it as a means to an end.
As the pieces flutter like dying moths into the can, one sticks to my sweaty palm. I shake it off fast, unlike the corrosive guilt for making him collateral. At least it would only be his feelings.
When I clear Atlas from the board, there are only two photos left.
