Page 100 of Lethal in Pink

"Amiyah?" Pen’s voice cuts sharply through the earpiece, dropping her usual lazy tone. "Target is right in the window. Windage is zeroed. Talk to me."

I yank my eye back from the scope, sucking in a lungful of rooftop air, my chest heaving like I’ve just sprinted a mile.

When I look back through the glass, Jae is leaning against the kitchen counter, pouring water from a filter pitcher straight into his mouth. His throat works in slow, deliberate swallows, a single drop tracking down his collarbone, past his chest, and straight down his torso.

My body remembers the weight of him way too clearly—the way he feels when he pins me against a doorframe, the friction of his skin, the heavy, suffocating heat of his mouth against mine when he murmurs sweet, effortless shit like jagiya just to watch me lose my equilibrium.

My finger is curled so hard against the stock of the LaRue that my knuckles are stark white, aching with the sudden, violent realization of what the fuck I was about to do. I’m not pulling that trigger.

Not tonight.

Not while the man standing two hundred and seventy meters away is the exact same guy whose voice I fell asleep to twelve hours ago.

"Amiyah. Status," Pen demands, static hissing on the line.

"No clear shot," I breathe back, forcing my voice to sound level even though my stomach is free-falling. "The angle's blocked by a structural pillar and the interior blinds shifted. I don't have a clean window."

"Fuck's sake," Penelope mutters in my ear. "Copy that. Don't force a bad angle. We'll just reschedule for a different day or look at a different approach. The board won't care about a timing adjustment as long as it gets done."

"Right. Thanks, Penelope," I bite out, the words tasting like copper. "Scrub it for tonight. Tell the twins to pack up the van."

The rifle comes apart in my hands with a vicious snap.

The bolt carrier group slides out with a hard, metallic clack. The handguard detaches, the screws biting into my palm as I torque them loose. Every single piece goes straight into the Pelican case with a heavy, punishing thud.

I zip the case shut and stand up, my knees cracking aggressively from forty-three minutes of staying dead still.

"Pen," I mutter, slinging the case over my shoulder as I head for the access door. "I'm heading home. I'll see you tomorrow."

The line goes dead.

The drive back to The Obsidian takes eighteen minutes. No music. No tactical breakdown running on a loop in my head, no backup plan. Just the low hum of the engine and the city smearing past the windshield in neon orange and streetlights. I stop at a red light. I honestly don’t remember passing the other three.

I pull into the circular drive, tossing my keys to the valet without a word, and take the private elevator straight to the fifteenth floor. The hallway is dead silent.

My smart-lock accepts my thumbprint with a quiet click.

I walk straight to the back of the walk-in closet, pressing the exact seam in the paneling that pops the hidden wall cache open. I slide the heavy ass case inside before turning toward the bathroom.

Once inside, I kick the door shut behind me with my heel and crank the shower handle.

Ice cold. Full fucking blast.

I step right in with my clothes on.

The water hits my shoulders and immediately steals the air from my lungs. My tank top turns transparent instantly, plastered like a second skin over my ribs. I press my palms flat against the tile wall, my head dropping as the freezing water matts my hair to my back.

I’m shivering so hard my teeth clack together, but it’s completely useless. The cold doesn't touch the phantom heat of him—the memory of his broad shoulders in my crosshairs, the heavy, bruising weight of him between my thighs, his mouth mapping every inch of my skin while I begged him to stop talking and just fuck me. I let out a ragged, furious breath that echoes off the tile.

I wanted him dead on paper. In reality, my nervous system isn't panicking—it's starving. It's aching to feel him sink deep inside my pussy, to have his tongue dragging across my clit until I'm screaming his name into the sheets.

Four minutes under freezing water is barely enough to numb the ache.

When I finally turn the water off, peeling the soaked, heavy fabric from my skin and wrapping a towel tight around my chest, my reflection in the fogged mirror looks pathetic. Pale, shaking, and entirely compromised.

I sit on the edge of the mattress, water dripping from my hair onto my collarbone, staring back toward the dark, concealed seam in the closet. I am so thoroughly fucked. I need to figure out a completely different strategy before I do something catastrophically reckless, like actually develop a conscience.

Or worse—surrender entirely to my target.