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Chapter One
Skylar
Iglanceddownatthe mask clasped between my fingers. The gleam of the red paint shone brightly back at me like the edge of a blade—like the blood that would coat his face later that night.
“Dad.” My final word both a slip of the tongue and a plea.
Don’t leave.
“I love you, Skylar.”
His last words to me had seemed so sincere—so full of love, loss, and regret, like he’d known it was the last time he would see me, like he knew that night would be his last.
I wish I hadn’t been such a coward, that I hadn’t been dumbstruck by the words used so sparingly since my mother’s death.
If I’d known that mask would obscure his face in those last moments, I would’ve never given it back to him. I would’ve cracked it over my knee and screamed at him to see reason, regardless of the consequences. He might not have been perfect, but I’d much rather have him here with me than be left with this gaping wound in my chest. The last piece of him that I have is this clip, the grainy images clear enough to make out the damn mask and the face of his killer—my mate.
Zeke.
I click the play button again, forcing myself to watch the clip for what must be the hundredth time as if something might change.
The figure strides to his place on the rooftop and opens his gun case, meticulously screwing the silencer onto his sniper rifle as he waits for his unsuspecting victim. His movements are practiced, as though he’s done this hundreds of times—which I’m sure he has. Zeke Andino is a name that strikes fear into the hearts of anyone who works in the underbelly of the east coast. He’s a highly-paid assassin for a reason—he gets in and out without being caught.
My father opens the steel door, storming out into the alley as it closes behind him. His phone is up to his ear, too focused on his conversation to sweep the surrounding rooftops until it’s too late. The assassin pulls the trigger and there’s a split second between when my father spots the shooter and when the bullet pierces his skull through the sickening red mask.
Zeke glances at the apartment buildings behind him with his brows furrowed, revealing the face of the man who had both healed me and broken me so easily. The video freezes there, leaving me with a million questions—the same ones that have been floating through my mind all week.
Had he heard a noise that startled him?
Someone with his level of expertise would’ve checked for any surveillance beforehand, and if there was something he couldn’t erase, he would’ve at least worn a mask.
Already, there are so many pieces of this puzzle that don’t quite add up. But I have to look at them objectively—not as the daughter of the man who was shot in cold blood, and not as the mate of his murderer.
Which is why I’ll keep replaying this video until I become numb, until this ache in my chest finally dulls to blissful apathy, until I erase all the feelings I hold for the man pulling the trigger. A week hasn’t been enough.
I want to throw this computer across the room. I want to destroy this office, light this desk on fire along with all the memories this room holds of both of the men in this video.
He knew.
My father knew there was a chance that night would be his last night, and stubbornness got him killed. His ego put me in this position. Alone. Surrounded by enemies disguised as friends. I have no clue who to trust anymore.
Blaming him won’t do me any good now. He made his choices and I’m left to clean up the mess.
I’m about to click the play button again when a soft rap at the door pulls me short.
“Is it life or death?” I ask, and fist the mouse in my palm, barely holding myself back from cracking it. I need to watch it again. I need to figure out why Zeke made that face, and I need to let the scene bleed away the anger boiling within me until there’s nothing left.
“I wouldn’t bother you if it wasn’t,” Monte answers, the doorknob already turning as he lets himself in.
My heart lurches and I spring to my feet, the mouse clattering onto the ancient wood. I reach for my holster and draw my Glock, ready to go when the door opens fully, revealing Monte on the other side ... with a sandwich.
“I thought it was life or death,” I grumble, and holster my weapon. Sinking back into the plush leather chair, I narrow my glare on him, but he just closes the door behind him.
“It is,” Monte says, shaking his head at the papers strewn across the floor. “You’re not a robot, Skylar. If you don’t eat, you’ll die.”
“Thanks for the insightful advice,” I snark back and click play on the video again.
“You’re still watching it?” Monte huffs out in exasperation, sliding the plate in front of me. As soon as the scent of mozzarella, turkey, and pesto hits my nose, my stomach rumbles impatiently, betraying just how long it has been since I last ate.
