Chapter 20
Okay. She’s freaking out.
Maybe if I stay calm, she’ll calm the fuck down too.
I lean into the bar, arms folded, watching her move the glass again—left, right—grasping for order after hearing something that can’t be neatly put away.
I didn’t sugarcoat it. Didn’t try to ease her into it. I just dropped it in her lap, a brutal fucking housewarming gift.
Welcome to the real me, sweetheart.
Decidedly so, maybe she should have known this information before I feasted on her pussy. Too late now.
She exhales sharply, hands braced on the counter, eyes darting anywhere but toward me.
“So,” she says, voice a little too high-pitched. “You’re a… handler.”
She lets the word stretch, like she’s trying it on, but worried it just doesn’t fit.
I watch her carefully, resisting the urge to speak too soon.
She’s not the kind of woman who panics, but not the kind who’s been given a reason to stand still, either. Always moving. Always calculating.
And still, I told her.
I told her because something about her tells me I can.
She plays by the book, yes, but she’s too sharp around the edges for that to be easy.
I’ve seen the streak of defiance in her eyes when she’s trying to do the right thing and hating every second of it. In the way she chews her bottom lip when she’s holding herself back. In the way she squares her shoulders before doing something she knows she shouldn’t enjoy.
There’s a wildness buried under all those rules. Something real.
And that’s why she gets the truth.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Sable swallows, and I watch her throat bob. “Excuse my ignorance, I don’t see how it’s any different than a hitman?”
I let out a gust of breath, keeping my tone even as I get ready to explain.
“Hitmen take contracts. They kill whoever pays the most. I don’t do that. I handle problems for people who don’t have another option. People who deserve justice.”
I feel my jaw tic as I finish, remembering the many faces I’ve helped and the depraved things I’ve done to right wrongs.
She drums her fingers against the bar, the kind of jittery rhythm that betrays someone silently debating fight or flight.
“You knew,” I say after a beat. “At least, you must have heard something. When you contacted me about the blonde, you knew. Didn’t you?”
She scoffs, crossing her arms.
“We didn’t know what fucking website we were on. Demi called it the dark web,” she says while wiggling her fingers in a hectic manner.
I arch a brow.
“The dark web?” I question, having a hard time holding back a snicker.
Her mouth opens, then closes, and I watch as her eyebrows scrunch together almost in embarrassment. “Is that not a thing?”
I shake my head, smirking despite myself.
She’s rattled, but she’s still Sable. Still quick. Still standing here listening instead of running for the door. That has to mean something.
I step closer. She doesn’t move away.
“I’m not gonna lie to you,” I say in an effort to build some trust.
She presses a hand to her chest. “Bless your heart.”
Sable blinks up at me, searching my face. I don’t know what she’s looking for. Reassurance? An explanation that makes all of this easier to swallow? Hell, if I knew, I’d give it to her.
After a long beat, she exhales.
“Well, that’s refreshing. Finally, a man who can give me a proper fucking orgasm and doesn’t want to lie to me.”
I chuckle, the tension in my chest loosening a fraction.
She rubs her temples, then says, “Okay, so let’s pretend I—again, hypothetically—accept all of this as my new reality. What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t have to be scared of me or anything in this world for that matter,” I tell her, voice steady. “I know you’ve got a kid. I know you’d never want him around someone dangerous.”
My fingers ache to touch her, but I hold myself back. Not the time. I shake my head. “I’m not dangerous, Sable. Not to you. Not to anyone who doesn’t deserve it. I protect the people I care about. But you do what you need to do. Process. Tell Demi if you need to.”
Something shifts in her face. Softer now. She bites her lip and nods.
She’s going to tell her little redheaded firecracker of a friend. I can already see it. And maybe that’s okay. If this thing between us goes anywhere—hell, if it becomes what I think it might—her best friend’s going to know everything anyway. Including the size of my dick.
Might as well let her in on the little murder secret while we’re at it.
Sable parts her lips on an exhale, her shoulders lowering just slightly. “I need to go.”
I nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
She pauses. Her eyes move across my face with the quiet urgency of someone trying to memorize it. Then she grabs her phone, heads for the door, and walks out.
I run a hand through my hair, watching her go.
She knows.
She didn’t run.
And if I read her right… she’ll come back.
Good.
I drop my hands to my hips, turning back toward the bar.
Before I can even process where to start on this hazardous zone, the back door swings open, and Will walks in.
He stops dead in his tracks, eyes scanning the mess. Discarded plates, half-eaten takeout containers, overturned glasses, and spilled liquid.
Silence.
A slow inhale. A slower exhale.
Then very carefully: “What. The. Actual. Fuck.”
I press my lips together. He’ll flip if I smile.
Will blinks at the crime scene. At the potato salad. The whipped cream. The napkins scattered like confetti. Then back at me, his gaze sharpening, calculating whether I’ve lost my entire goddamn mind.
His eyebrow twitches.
Then, in a very calm, very controlled voice I hear my name.
I brace myself.
“Why,” he continues, scanning the damage, “is there potato salad everywhere?”
I glance at the sad, overturned potato salad cup on the barstool. “Things got out of hand.”
Will’s eyes narrow. “No shit.”
His glare flicks to the whipped cream. Back to me. Back to the whipped cream.
His nostrils flare. His mouth opens, then he immediately shuts it.
A slow crawl of recognition pulls across his face until only horror remains.
“Oh my God.” He steps back, mimicking physical repulsion. “Oh my God.”
I stay silent.
He jabs a finger at the bar with the kind of wounded indignation usually reserved for personal betrayal. “Hex. Please. Tell me that is not—”
I hold up a hand. “Will.”
“Tell me that is not sexually involved whipped cream.”
I scrub a hand over the stubble on my jaw. I level him with a look. “Will.” I repeat.
He leans closer, voice barely above a whisper, as though bracing for something he doesn’t want to hear. “Hex… was the potato salad also involved?”
I exhale through my nose. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”
Will visibly shudders. “That’s somehow worse.”
I shake my head, walking past him, and leaving him to deal with what he does best.
Behind me, I hear him mutter, “God help me, I’m going to have to disinfect the whole damn bar.”