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“And of us,” Nate muttered. He crossed his arms over his big chest and scowled. “If you’re so done with us, why are you here?”
“Brielle Ives. She doesn’t know how toxic he is, and I’ll be damned if I let him hurt an innocent woman.”
Nate gave a mirthless chuckle. “We’re already damned, brother.”
“Butshedoesn’t have to be.”
“Huh. You are capable of caring about someone other than yourself. Who’d’ve thought?” His cool blue gaze shifted to the front of Ellis’s jacket. “What the hell is that thing you’re carrying?”
He cradled Peanut protectively. “Thatthinghas a name. It’s Peanut.”
“Peanut?” Nate echoed doubtfully.
“She’s my dog.”
Nate snorted. “That’s not a dog. It’s a rotisserie chicken with a pom-pom on its head. Is it wearing a pink sweater?”
“Hername is Peanut,” he repeated. “And, yeah, she wears sweaters because she gets cold. Got a problem with that?” He gently extracted Peanut from his jacket and handed her over. “And you’d better be nice to her, fucker, because you’re dog-sitting while I make sure Brielle Ives doesn’t get herself killed.”
Nate looked as if he’d just been handed a live bomb. “W-what?”
“I was going to board her here, but there’s no here left. So you’re watching her.”
“W-what am I supposed to do with this…this gremlin?”
“Keep her alive and in one piece. Make sure she wears her sweaters. She likes only organic dog food and filtered water… Oh.” He snapped his fingers and couldn’t help the evil grin as he backed toward the door. “And don’t feed her after midnight.”
“Ellis!” Nate called after him. “Aw, c’mon, man.”
“About time you learned to interact with the living. You’ll thank me later.”
“Fuck you!”
Ah, brothers. He’d forgotten what fun it was picking on shy, introverted Nate. And, really, this was the perfect solution. Peanut would force Nate out of the morgue—was it called a morgue for animals or only people? Didn’t matter. She’d force him to get some face-to-face time with the living and, more importantly, she’d be safe.
Which was more than he could say about himself and Brielle Ives.
6
There were two things Abbott Krane hated most on the earth: snow and fuck ups. And this job had them both in spades.
It should’ve been easy. Get rid of the old drunk, collect his money, and get the hell out of Alaska for someplace warm and sunny. It was the kind of job he’d done time and again in his decade-long career as a hired killer, but it went to fucking hell in a handbasket and he still didn’t know how he’d so badly underestimated his target.
He wouldn’t make that mistake again and he told his employers as much when they demanded a report on his progress. Then they dropped a bombshell on him.
We have another problem.
He frowned at the text message. He liked using the texting app for all of his business because it left no trace of him in his employers’ contacts, but it allowed him to save every conversation for future blackmail. His number one rule was to always cover his own ass first. He didn’t care how much they were paying him, if he sensed anything was off, he vanished.
Maybe he should’ve vanished off this job after things went sideways on him, but he hated leaving loose ends that could come back to hang him. And Dr. William Hunter was a loose end. The man was one of the only people living who had seen Krane’s face. That couldn’t stand, so here he was, still freezing his ass off in Alaska.
But the texting app had its drawbacks. People were more demanding in text and expected him to be reachable 24/7. And then there was shit like the text that had just hit his phone.
We have another problem.
He didn’t want another fucking problem. He wanted to solve the one he had and get gone. He opened the app and asked,what problem?
The reply came in seconds. A name: Brielle Ives.
