Page 97 of Mile High Heist

We didn’t like that word.

The mind was a fortress, and then there were battering rams. I moved again, without thought, without hesitation, and pinned the puppy hard to the wall. He squirmed restlessly, then froze when he glanced at my face.

My demons smiled back at him. “We don’t touch,” I said slowly. His eyes widened. “Do not test me, puppy.”

Nervously, he nodded.

I released him, and he slid down the wall, then shot a wary look at Jax. “I’ll keep watch out here,” he said, shooting me a careful look that said too much. Emotional sponge.

I turned and faced the bed. Olivia was another battering ram. Her pale, blood-soaked face was a reflection of my own—prettier, but no less tragic.

I was nine.

I was twelve.

I was fourteen, and I had blood on my hands. That was the day I stopped feeling. When it all finally stopped hurting.

Jax hovered beside her, his large, scarred hands hanging uselessly. He thought he broke things before he fixed them. He looked at her, then back at me, jaw flexing. “What am I not getting?” he bit out, clearly feeling helpless.

I rolled my eyes and approached the bed. Then I knelt between her knees. Her eyes ghosted over my face.

“Wet towel,” I said.

Jax went to retrieve it. I said nothing as we waited, never taking my eyes off her. Her lashes fluttered like stray thoughts caught in a web.

When Jax returned, he handed me the towel and took up a post against the wall.

Oh, the twisted irony.

Careful, my movements deliberately slow, I lifted the towel to her face. I cleaned the blood without touching her skin with mine. It was fresh, so it streaked instead of flaked. I moved down her throat—pretty, so pretty—and her chest.

When I reached her hands, I grabbed each one and inspected them. No blood beneath the fingernails. She hadn’t fought anyone. I assessed her knees—no bruises. Where I could, I checked her thighs. No fingermarks.

When she was marginally cleaner, I pressed my thumb to the median nerve beneath her palm.

She jumped, alert.

Then she blinked at me. “Ow.”

My mouth twitched.

Her brow creased as she snatched her hand away from me. “Don’t do that,” she said, her voice cracking from her earlier opera rendition.

Jax stepped forward. “Liv?” His voice was deep and too hopeful.

I stood up and moved to the wall. Jax took my place, hands twitching at his sides.

Olivia looked up at him, then promptly burst into tears. Jax’s restraint broke, and he pulled her into his chest. “What happened?”

“Lucille,” she sobbed.

“What did she do?”

“She saved me.” Olivia slapped her hands over her face. Between her fingers, she recounted what happened. The ice hardened in my veins.

The copilot was a Viper. Of course he was. It was a near-perfect convergence.

My mind analyzed every detail from our earlier interaction. Thin, young, early-thirties. Nervous—yes. He’d been nervous. Not a seasoned killer, but an eager one.