Page 7 of Trigger Happy Ending

O’s hand slams down onto the desk. I don’t flinch.

“Did I stutter? Was there some part of this conversation that sounded like it was open for negotiation?”

My mouth tightens into a thin, hostile line. “No.”

“You will follow these orders.” O’s eyes narrow, threatening. “Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, sir.”

O relaxes back into his chair, the leather creaking underneath his weight. “Good girl.”

My skin fucking crawls. “Can you at least tell me who it is?”

Better the devil you know.

“Agency family,” he says at last. “Ex-military.”

Oh, superb. This gets better and better. An ex-soldier with something to prove.

“Codename’s Bodysnatcher.”

The name is meaningless to me. I don’t know who that is. I stick to myself most of the time, refusing to forge connections with anyone. If I’ve learned one thing in my life, it’s that attachments cause weakness. And I can’t afford to be weak in my line of work. Weakness gets you killed. Or worse, the person you love killed.

I hear him before I see him.

Steady bootsteps drum across the hardwood, stopping outside O’s office. There’s an unmistakable energy shift before the door creaks open. His scent hits first, and it’s a combination of my favorites: rain-soaked leather.

I glance sideways at the dark figure who now stands in the doorway, and I just about stop breathing. A delicious combination of desire and fear coils low in my stomach. He’s straight from my twisted fairytales, a wrecking ball of muscle and brutality. Six-foot-five at least. The kind of man who could break you in half with one hand and leave you begging for more.

He’s fucking gorgeous.

I hate him on sight.

Chapter 3

Raine

Attractive assassins aren’t new to me, killers with killer bodies and all that. But this one rewrites the rules. I may have a cold heart and a compromised soul, but I’m still a woman with two eyes and a pulse. And right now my pulse is between my legs.

The man who I assume is Bodysnatcher sets a matte-black motorcycle helmet (because of course he rides) on the desk, straight in front of O, rainwater pooling beneath it. I notice his tattooed, murderous hands first, knuckles stamped with the words KILL and SHOT.

Subtle.

He may as well wear a badge that says: “I’m an assassin, ask me how!”

He falls into the chair beside me with a heavy thud.

I stare unashamedly and take in the small upside-down cross inked beneath one eye. A mark to remind the world that he’s the Antichrist, perhaps? My eyes drop to a snarling hellhound, fangs bared mid-roar, flexing across his throat. Underneath the beast, two lines of barbed wire twist, jagged and tight, before vanishing around the back of his neck. Even the shaved sides of his head are tattooed. Intricate lines blending seamlessly onto the side of his skull. He rakes a hand through his dark, slick hair, which is longer on top, pushing it back from his face.

Then his gaze slams into mine like a fucking freight train.

For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. I sink into the most terrifying, yet heart-stoppingly beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Obsidian eyes, gloriously dark, like a depthless, black lake.

He doesn’t blink either, holding my stare with an intensity that sets my core alight.