25
Cad e
What the hell was I thinking?
Telling Luna. Of all people.
To Sophie, I’m just an undercover FBI agent. To Scar, all my kills are bureau-sanctioned. Hawkins knows I do twisted shit on my own time, but as long as the reports match the assignment, he’s never made it his business. Sophie’s father, Phoenix, knows about the kill list—but only the basics.
No one—not a single fucking soul—knows the way I study my targets. How I slide into their routines until I know them better than they know themselves.
No one’s ever watched me exact revenge.
No one, except Luna.
I could blame it on her being nosy, but I know better. It was the way she looked at me when she said she wanted to come with me.
The way she cried last night. For me. Those quiet, smothered sobs that hit my bloodstream like pure heroin, flooding me with a high I couldn’t shake. No sound has ever unmade me like that. Not for the past twenty-two years.
Saint felt it too. He wouldn’t settle until her crying stopped. Neither would I.
That’s why I ended up in her room, sitting in the shadows, watching her sleep.
It wasn’t lust. Lust is too simple—easily satisfied and forgotten. This was something more tangible. Something like possession.
Luna belongs to me.
I knew it when she clung to me and orgasmed while surrounded by death, perfectly shameless, wearing her confidence like armor. She’s too comfortable around me—as if she doesn’t know what kind of monster I am. Or worse, she knows and doesn’t care.
So I let her see who I really am. Like everything else, she took it in stride—until now.
Now she’s reeling. Two hours of silence confirm this. Her eyes are fixed on the passing landscape through her window, arms crossed tight. Even when I stopped for food, she only wanted a burger, which she ate without sparing me a glance.
Hell, she’ll give herself a stiff neck if she carries this on much longer.
I can hear the gears turning in that pretty head, plotting escape routes that no longer exist. I gave her chances to run, but she kept choosing to stay, and now, choice has become irrelevant.
Now she’s staying with me, whether she likes it or not.
The truth is, she deserves better than what a dead man walking can offer. The bureau will put me down like the rabid dog I am once I’ve outlived my usefulness. Scar sees it coming too—that day when my sins finally catch up to me. I can feel it breathing down my neck, a countdown I can’t escape.
But until then? She’s mine to keep. Mine to corrupt. Mine to destroy.
The air in the truck shifts, drawing my attention to her profile. She’s finally stopped staring out the window—thank God. Now her fingers are lazily combing through her glossy dark hair—slow, deliberate movements that speak of leashed control. Everything about her screams precision, even in crisis.
Her thoughts fill the space between us, like storm clouds ready to break. Any second now, she’ll say—”
“Are you ever going to say something?” Right on cue, her voice cuts through the silence like a knife. “You could, you know. Ask how I’m feeling. You dropped a fucking hailstorm on me, and now you’re just sitting there relishing the chaos like an evil genius.”
The accusation in her voice hits like a caress. Even terrified, she comes out swinging.
I glance at her again. No tremors, no nervous ticks. Just precise, controlled movements that could almost pass for boredom.
This . . . This is new territory for me. Dangerous territory. Decades of reading people, almost discerning their thoughts—it’s kept me breathing this long.
But Luna is like a black hole dressed in designer jeans, swallowing every tell before I can catch it. It’s fucking fascinating and terrifying.
“What are you feeling right now?” The question slips out like a probe, searching for a reaction.
She scoffs and turns back to the window. “I thought someone with your expertise would be better at reading the room.”
“ You’d think so.” I muse, savoring the tension finally seeping into her voice. There’s my opening. “What is it you want, princess? Reassurance that you can trust me? Or that no one in your family is on my list?”
Her groan is pure exasperation. “I’m looking for basic courtesy, Cade. Ever heard of it? When someone goes silent after you’ve dumped a metric ton of murder confessions on their head, the decent thing to do is check if they’re okay.”
I fight back a grin, watching frustration heat her cheeks. “Never said you couldn’t talk to me, princess. I was done chatting. You want to vent, go ahead.”
“You know what, forget it!” she snaps, her gaze back on the landscape, clearly done with me for now.
Already dreading another stretch of catatonic silence—something I’d usually welcome—I stop for gas again. Not that we need it, but an excuse to get her out. She declines my offer to buy her something from the store.
Thirty miles later, she turns to me. “Pull over at the next stop. I need something.”
“I just did—fifteen minutes ago—and you didn’t want anything.”
“Well, now I do,” she snaps,
I take a calming breath. “Alright. What do you want?”
Her lips press into a tight line as color rises in her cheeks. “It’s personal.”
I wait her out.
“I need . . . supplies,” she finally mutters, gesturing at her lap.
My gaze follows the motion, dragging down to where those soft, denim-clad thighs meet. Realization dawns, alongside a hard throb of arousal. “Really? Now?”
She squirms, rolling those dark eyes like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. “Jesus, Cade, can you stop staring? Yes, now. ”
Fuck.
The throb in my cock turns savage, the reaction so visceral it catches me off guard. Why on earth Luna starting her period should turn me into a fucking bloodhound is beyond me.
“Got it.” I wrench my gaze away, fighting for a neutral tone. “There’s towels in the back. For the seat, in case—”
She shoots me a glare and I lift a hand in surrender, choking back the urge to torment her further. The blush staining her cheeks is satisfying enough.
“Alright. First stop I see.”
Minutes later, she straightens in her seat and points ahead. “There!”
My jaw clenches at the sight. The shopping strip is crawling with people—too many bodies, too many eyes. But her needs don’t give a fuck about security protocols.
I watch the crowd flow like water around the storefronts, pooling near a park across the street. The perfect cover for someone trying to melt into the background, but it also means more witnesses should anything go to shit.
I scan the layout, categorizing possible threats and exits. The lot is packed, but that works in our favor. I guide the truck to the far end, using the cluster of vehicles as a shield from the main entrance.
I kill the engine and turn to her. “So, what kind—”
“Don’t you dare,” she cuts me off with a raised finger, eyes flashing. “One word about feminine products and I swear they’ll never find your body.”
A low chuckle escapes me as I lean back in my seat. “Suit yourself. Cash is in the glove compartment.”
She flicks the lock and pulls out two twenty-dollar bills from the bundles, then moves to leave. Without thinking, my hand lands on her thigh to stop her quick exit.
Big mistake.
The contact hits like lightning, crackling up my arm and straight to my spine. Instinct screams to break the connection before it burns too deep but I don’t.
Her sharp gasp tells me she felt it too. When those eyes flash to mine, they’re drowning pools of shock . . . and lust. The latter hooks into me, making me tighten my grip.
“Saint goes with you, princess.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“What, are you afraid of him?” I rasp, my thumb stroking her through the soft denim.
Those sloe eyes narrow on mine and I know she hears what I’m really asking: Are you afraid of me?
She lifts her chin in that defiant tilt that makes my blood heat. “You wish.”
“Good girl.”
“Fuck off,” she snaps, but color floods her cheeks, betraying the effect those two words have on her.
She reaches for the door handle, then stops. “Other people might be scared of Saint, though.”
I let my fingers trail off her thigh, savoring the lingering burn of her heat on my skin. “Saint will behave don’t worry. He might not like strangers, but he knows how to act around them.”
I open the door and call for Saint, watching in the side mirror as he leaps out. He comes around to my side, waiting for instructions. “You’re going in there with Luciana.”
Saint’s cropped ears twitch in response, his gaze already scanning the crowd.
Luna looks uncertain. “Cade, he doesn’t have a leash.”
“You couldn’t control him even if he had one. But he’ll do what you tell him as long as he has you within sight or earshot. Won’t you, Saint?”
Sai nt lifts his head a fraction and his ears twitch again as he locks eyes with me.
“Lock it down, mate,” I command, a code for him to protect Luna, with his life if necessary, and Saint gives a short huff of assent.
Luna chews on her bottom lip, still debating with herself, but eventually opens the door.
I watch her move toward the store, struck by the sultry grace with which she moves. Those jeans should be classified as a lethal weapon, and the sway of her hips could start a gang war.
Saint flows beside her like a living shadow, all contained violence.
The effect is immediate and exactly what I want. Gazes are averted, catcalls die, a beefy jogger swings wide, and a cluster of teenagers suddenly remember urgent business elsewhere. She moves through the space they create, completely oblivious to the power she commands with my dog at her side.
Beautiful and lethal. Christ, she’s perfect.
She shouldn’t belong in my world—this bright, fierce creature with steel in her spine and salvation in her tears. And yet I’m dragging her deeper into it with every passing mile, every bared secret, every touch that brands us both.
She and Saint disappear into the store and I count down ten minutes.
When she doesn’t return in twenty, I know something isn’t right.