15
Luna
I didn’t think it was possible to feel revulsion and excitement in equal amounts at the same time. But that’s exactly where I’m at as I watch, transfixed, my fingers clutching at my own pendant as Cade wraps his rosary around Hector’s neck.
The metallic beads catch the sunlight like drops of mercury as they snake into position.
Cade leans in close to Hector’s ear, speaking words that don’t carry up to my perch, but I can read the look on his face clear enough. Fury mixed with something that makes my blood run cold: satisfaction.
I can’t tear my eyes away, and my heart seems to have forgotten how to beat normally. It slows one moment and races the next.
I know in my bones that this kill is different. This isn’t survival or necessity. This is personal. Intimate. A grudge kill.
Revenge served ice-cold.
As Cade tightens the rosary, my stomach flips over itself. Each flick of his wrist is a deliberate, practiced movement, flexing his biceps and forearm muscles in a way that makes my traitorous mouth go dry.
Cade Quinn has done this before. Many, many times. He’s not Catholic. That rosary was crafted for one purpose, and it’s not prayer.
Note to self: Never ever ask to borrow his jewelry.
Hector’s gasps turn to desperate choking, the sounds carrying clearly in the dead air. A sick feeling blooms in my gut, spreading like poison. But—God help me—it’s not just horror churning inside me.
There’s something darker taking root. Something I dare not name, let alone examine. Something that whispers this is exactly who Cade was all along, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t look away from the first moment I set eyes on him.
Time stretches like melted candy, sticky and surreal until Hector’s body goes completely limp. Cade holds his position for several calculated heartbeats before he finally straightens, and lets Hector crumple to the ground. The rosary unwinds from Hector’s neck, beads glinting as it dangles from Cade’s steady hands.
I swallow hard, ears straining for sirens, for the distant wail of police, for any sound that would make this feel real. But the road stays dead quiet. Unnaturally quiet. No cars, no witnesses, no curious faces at windows.
It’s as if the world knows better than to interrupt Cade Quinn at work. As if reality itself has pressed pause, holding its breath in the aftermath of his violence.
And this is the person I’ve asked to help me— this avenging angel of death, the executioner. I am so far out of my depth that I can’t even see the surface.
He puts the rosary back on, tucking it behind the tactical vest and T-shirt until it’s once again hidden from sight. Then his head snaps up, eyes finding me with laser precision. Not that I’m hard to spot, since I’m practically dangling out the window, gawking like some twisted Rapunzel.
The smile that curves his lips isn’t like the one I saw earlier—this one’s warm and real. He lifts one finger, waving it back and forth in a ‘you shouldn’t have’ gesture that somehow manages to be both playful and terrifying.
And I am terrified, only, what scares me the most is the way my lips twitch, returning his smile. It must be adrenaline. It has to be. Surely I’m not that sick.
The smile vanishes like it never appeared and that familiar stoic mask slides back into place. When his hand moves to his pocket, my whole body tenses, ready for another weapon. Instead, he pulls out a phone, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
His eyes stay locked on mine as he lifts the phone, his voice pitched too low to catch. The rhythm of it, clipped and controlled, tells me all I need to know: he’s arranging a cleanup, not calling for help.
Well, since he’s wrapping up his . . . activities (murder, Luna, call it what it is), I might as well join the party downstairs. Better than waiting for him to zoom off and leave me to explain this bloodbath to the cops. Though I’m not sure which prospect is scarier—facing the police or facing him.
Climbing down proves to be a lot harder. Every bone in my body is rattling, and every nerve is on high alert. By the time my feet hit solid ground, I’m covered in dust and I’ve added a few new tears to my already abused skirt.
Each step toward him feels like walking into deeper water. My pulse spikes as the distance between us clo ses. Cade tucks his phone away, and then his eyes bore into mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
An awkward silence stretches between us, thick and loaded with everything that’s dying to be said.
Dear Lord, what’s the etiquette here? Nice kill? Lovely technique with that rosary, do you take requests?
My mouth runs ahead of my common sense, as usual. “So, do you always accessorize with murder weapons?” I nod at the silver visible at his nape, “Or is it just for special occasions?”
His expression doesn’t change, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that could be amusement. Or annoyance. Or murderous intent. At this point, who knows?
“I told you not to watch,” his voice is like gravel wrapped in velvet.
It’s not quite a reprimand, but there’s an edge that makes me want to take a step back. I shrug instead, aiming for nonchalance. “Yeah, well, you’ll find I don’t always do as I’m told.”
Silence, again. He watches me like he expects me to crack. As if the meltdown currently happening behind my carefully constructed calm isn’t enough for him.
“Anyway, I imagine that was you calling the clean-up guys. So we should be good to leave. Where are we going next?”
A single brow arches—no doubt at my use of “we,” and for a moment I wonder if I might have overstepped. But hell, after what I’ve just seen him do, I’ve fucking earned the right to use whatever pronoun I damn well choose.
Cade takes a step closer, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of how much he towers over me. The air between us feels charged, a force field of danger that makes me want to run, but I swallow my fear and stand my ground.
“I,” he emphasizes the word, “am going to get some supplies and then head to Moscow.”
“ Ouch. You extended an invite to me less than an hour ago.”
“Yeah, and it expired the moment you turned it down because you thought I was planning to sell you.”
“I did not think—”
His gaze narrows, daring me to finish the lie. Those eyes could strip away paint and, apparently, bullshit.
“Okay, fine, the thought crossed my mind, but can you blame me? You're a trafficker. Who, given that . . . demonstration, has an interesting way of disagreeing with his partners.”
He pauses like he’s searching for the right words—a look that doesn’t fit him. “You shouldn’t ask for help from someone you don’t trust. And just so you know, trust goes both ways.”
“Meaning?”
He glances back at Hector’s body, and a sick realization dawns on me. He knew I would look. He wanted me to see.
“Why did you show me that?” My voice wavers with the panic suddenly clogging my throat.
Do I even want to know?
His gaze narrows on me like twin green lasers. “Because your sense of self-preservation needs a reality check.”
His words hit like icicles, stiffening my spine in defiance. “Really? You staged all that just to scare me?” I cross my arms to hide the tremor in my hands. “Please, Cade. You’re about as terrifying as a poodle.”
A corner of his lips curls up in a smirk. “Noted. Anyway, that was your last free pass. From here on out, if you want me to risk my neck for you, you’ll have to earn it.”
Earn it. I blink slowly. Okay, I didn’t expect Cade to turn around and drop ultimatums after what I just saw him do, but maybe it’s time to stop trying to figure him out .
“What’s in Moscow anyway?” I ask.
Cade strides toward the motorbike. “Let’s go,” he snaps.
Right, it’s a secret. Gotta earn that one, I suppose.
Climbing onto the bike behind him, I murmur, “You know, I’ve got a contact in Moscow. Actually, he’s more than just a contact. He’s a potential fiancé. He’s got major connections in your line of work. Deep pockets, too. I could connect you—if you keep me safe.”
Cade scoffs and shakes his head. “And you’re supposed to be a finance major.”
I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He turns and plops the helmet onto my head. “One would think you’d know the difference between ‘earn’ and ‘bargain,’ princess.” He revs the engine. “Try to skip fewer classes.”
Rage bubbles up inside me, but I fasten the straps and wrap my arms around his waist before he can zoom off and leave me in the dust.
“Has anyone ever mentioned you’re a total dickhead, Cade? Not saying you are, I just, you know . . . wondered.”
He glances back over his shoulder. “Yep, I get that a lot. And while we’re on the subject—if you start moaning my name or dare to make another mess on my bike, I will throw you off.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I open my mouth to retort, but he’s already gunning the engine, drowning out any comeback.
I grit my teeth, tighten my arms around him, and silently plot his murder as his scent envelopes me, now mixed with violence, smoke, and total, unmitigated asshole.
It’s too bad he’s, quite literally, the only solid thing I’ve got to hold on to as the world blurs around me.