Chapter One Alec
These are my least favorite types of jobs.
I can’t believe anyone would want to live in a place that small. But she doesn’t have much in the way of assets—at least according to my research.
I’m still not sure why Boss took this job. Although it’s not really our MO to refuse work. We’ll do dirty jobs for anybody with the money to pay.
I suppose that’s as good as I can hope for at this point. Retail or food service wouldn’t even take me.
The target, Claire Andrews, is still pacing. Tallish for a woman—about five-eight. Twenty-five years old. No family to speak of. On her own since before she turned eighteen.
My job today is to scare her into silence so she’ll stop blackmailing the client.
I don’t have many details on him. Just some high-and-mighty politician. Theodore McDowell Jr.
When we met to discuss the job, something about him sat wrong with me.
The way he smiled too wide while describing what he wanted done to this woman.
The way his eyes stayed flat and cold even as his voice dripped with charm.
He’d laughed at one point—said something about how some people just need to learn their place—and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
Should’ve listened to that instinct. But the money was good.
There’s no one else around. If I’m going to scare the fuck out of this young woman, now’s the time.
Still, I give it a few more minutes. Years of caution have taught me anything can go wrong at any moment. Just because you can’t see a threat doesn’t mean it’s not there.
I won’t be caught with my pants down again.
Tracking her through the sight, I zoom in. She’s not just pacing. She’s upset. Brow furrowed, drawn low over light eyes.
For a split second, another face flashes in my vision. Martinez. The way he looked at me right before the ambush—confused, trusting, waiting for my signal. The crack of gunfire. The wet sound of bullets finding flesh.
I blink hard.
Not now. Focus.
She’s thin. Moves with a grace that would put most people to shame, even while pacing like a caged animal. Warm beige skin. Brown hair that dangles down her back until she yanks it up into a messy bun.
I’m an expert at body language. Everything about her reads nervous. Anxious.
Scared.
That doesn’t match the cold, calculating blackmailer the client described. Nothing he told me lines up with what I’m seeing.
That’s when it hits me.
I’ve been told to intimidate this woman into silence. But silence about what?
That asshole Teddy wasn’t honest with me. The guy is in the wrong here. I’d bet my life on it.
I watch people for a living. All my instincts are screaming that this woman isn’t the bad guy.
She’s the one who needs help.
She turns toward the window, and even through the grainy green of night vision, I catch the delicate line of her jaw. The soft curve of her neck.
It hits me like a punch to the gut.
Gorgeous.
But it’s more than that. The vulnerability in her posture—the way she wraps her arms around herself like she’s trying to hold herself together—reaches inside me and grabs.
My chest tightens. Pulse kicks up. There’s this irrational, bone-deep urge to cross that street, kick down her door, and put myself between her and whatever’s scaring her.
Which is insane. I don’t know this woman.
She doesn’t seem fancy or high-maintenance. The apartment is sparsely furnished. She’s struggling.
And she’s terrified.
I’m a rough guy with questionable morals. But I don’t scare helpless women for no reason. Not just to make some asshole feel better because he’s the one who fucked up.
Time blurs as I keep watching. I feel strange about it. Normally surveillance is nothing.
But everything about this woman is igniting something in me that shouldn’t exist.
She’s beautiful. Lithe curves barely hidden by a thin white tank top and tiny shorts. My cock twitches, and I have to adjust myself, clearing my throat for no one.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve seen her for a few minutes. Total. And I’m hard. Protective. Possessive.
It doesn’t make sense. But as I watch Claire a little longer, I fall deeper into that hole. The voice screaming at me to make sure Teddy fucks right off becomes impossible to ignore.
He’s a politician in election season. She probably knows something he wants buried.
Lowlife criminals in suits. They do what they want behind closed doors and play saint for the cameras.
That cold smile of his flashes through my mind. My jaw tightens.
Claire Andrews is an innocent woman in over her head, up against a wealthy predator who doesn’t play by the rules.
That doesn’t bode well for her.
And I don’t fucking like it.
I took this job so I didn’t have to question everything anymore. This was supposed to be straightforward.
It’s anything but.
I’m going to catch hell for what I’m about to do. But I can’t fight it.
I stuff the binoculars in my pack, sling it over my shoulder, drop it in my car, and head straight for her front door.
Small townhome. Old. Whoever designed it didn’t think people needed space to live.
I knock. Wait. No answer.
After a few minutes of silence, I hear a yelp behind the door.
My instincts flare.
The knob’s locked. Doesn’t matter. I pull out my pick set—old habit—and have it open in under ten seconds.
I slip inside and head straight for where I last saw her.
Her back is to me. When she turns and sees me standing there, she screams bloody murder.
“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my apartment? Oh, no, no, no. I’m not doing anything. Stay away from me!”
She bolts down the hallway before I can respond.
I follow. “Would you stop? I’m not going to hurt you. That’s not what I’m here for.”
But she’s screaming, and suddenly objects come flying from behind a closed door. Water bottle. Notebook. TV remote. I dodge them all.
“Would you quit it?! I’m trying to help you. Open the damn door.”
Another object whizzes past my head.
“Stay away from me! I know why you’re here!”
I test the door. It wobbles. One hard shove, and it flies open.
Claire’s bedroom. She’s on the floor, staring up at me like I just hit her.
“Get away from me! Please. I don’t want to get hurt. I’ll give you anything. Please go.”
She thinks I’m a thug here to hurt her. This is out of hand.
Hair’s come loose from her bun. Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide and wild.
It’s not that I like her scared—but I like the look of her. Disheveled. Breathless. Like she’d look after I—
Stop.
I shake my head. Hold out my hand.
“I’m not going to hurt you. Please. Let’s talk.”
She studies me. Suspicious. But after a moment, she takes my hand.
I pull her up—and her knee slams into my balls.
Pain rockets through me. Nausea hits.
Before she can bolt, I grab her wrist and spin her back toward the wall. She lands with a thud. I cage her between my arms.
“Alright, darling. Clever. But enough. We’re going to talk.”
Her expression crumbles. No fight left. Just tears welling, clinging to her lashes, then spilling over.
This close, I can smell her. Vanilla. Clean laundry. And underneath, the sharp edge of fear. Her chest heaves with quick, shallow breaths. A tremor runs through her whole body.
So small compared to me. So fragile.
Someone made her this scared.
Something dark and possessive twists in my gut. Whoever did this—I want to find them. Wrap my hands around their throat. Squeeze until they beg.
The violence of the thought should shock me.
It doesn’t.
“I won’t say anything about him,” she whispers. “Don’t hurt me. I won’t say anything. Please. I’m sorry I brought it up. It’ll be like nothing happened.”
My spine goes rigid.
Him.
She thought I was one of Teddy’s men. Immediately. Not a random thug—his thug.
That’s telling as hell.
I stare into her tear-streaked face. Fight the urge to brush the tears away. To pull her against my chest and swear no one will ever hurt her again.
One thought burns through everything else.
What the fuck did that Teddy asshole do to her?
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