Chapter Four
Four
Axe
Back in my CIA days, when I was neck-deep in code cracking, and later in private security gigs across every sketchy corner of the world, I could practically smell trouble before it hit.
I had a knack for sensing when a cover was about to be blown, when an ambush was lurking, or when a mission was going straight to hell.
But that talent doesn’t seem to carry over to the tech world—aye, I can spot a mole from eighty meters, but my radar for office drama is completely useless.
Maybe it’s because the stakes just aren’t as high.
But here, at this ridiculous party, that old instinct is kicking in again.
I’m not the only one. Plenty of agents talk about this sixth sense. I imagine it’s a Darwinian survival instinct, honed by experience.
The annual SynthoTech/Dark Matter Entertainment bash is my least favorite night of the year.
The only upside is that once it’s done, I’m free from this nonsense for another 364 days.
The party committee, in their infinite wisdom, picked the Ravenswood Asylum as the venue.
Despite the way I tend to do things, I’m no fan of horror.
Life is dirty, and I often have blood on my hands. Why mess about with the fake stuff when the real thing is never far away?
“I’m going to find Honor,” Strike says from behind me. Petrov’s sorted—he’ll be chucked out with the rest of the night’s rubbish. Our business is done here, even if things didn’t go exactly to plan. “I’m not too worried. She’ll do damage control with Josie.”
“Aye,” I say, but I’m barely paying attention. I’m already halfway down the hall, following the alarm bells blaring in my head—or, more precisely, in my nose.
Something’s happened to Josie. I can smell it.
I take the stairs to the back patio, party central.
I’ve purposely been avoiding this area—too many hands to shake, too many people who want to either pull me to the dance floor or chat AI.
These aren’t my mates—I only have one of those—and I can think of a thousand better ways to spend this evening.
Billiards or boxing or on my boat with Strike.
Home with a whiskey neat, in front of my computer, untangling a difficult piece of code.
Working out in my gym, burning off my rage with weights.
This is a spectacle of forced merriment, but for me, it’s an introvert’s nightmare.
The real action is in the shadows, where blood and secrets flow thicker than whiskey.
And tonight the scent of trouble is strong. Josie is somewhere out there, and I need to find her before the night takes an even darker turn.
I thread through the crowd, dodging people shouting hellos and “Hey, Axe!” and even one lass who brazenly slips her hands into my pockets and tries to whisper in my ear.
I grab her wrists and push them away. Out of the corner of my eye, I clock that she’s beautiful, in that TikTok filter way that has flattened so many women—tight skin, lip implants, jaw contouring, fake lashes.
Not my type, even if she wasn’t so handsy.
I glance around, desperate now. It’s not Petrov’s men; I’d know if they were here. But something’s off. Josie’s no damsel, even with those big doe eyes. She could kill me with a look. Still, I know she needs help.
I dodge yet another bloke trying to chat about AI, not bothering to slow down—seriously, can’t they take a hint?
I’m stumbling through fake smiles and masked faces.
The dance floor’s heaving, and the music’s so loud it’s rattling in my skull.
How this noise became part of my job, I’ll never know.
Tech used to be about the product, not the image.
My eyes scan the crowd around the bar, teeming with people. No sign of her. Then I see it.
Her sparkly bag is lying on the floor near a side entrance to the building. Instinct kicks in and my pulse kicks up. I was right. She’s in trouble. I move through the crowd, quickly kneeling to pick up the bag, keeping it in my grip as I scan the edges of the room one last time. Nothing.
I head through the door into the darkness of a service corridor, the cool air a faint relief from the smoke and haze. Immediately, I see them down the hall—a nasty-looking bloke I don’t recognize has Josie up against the wall.
“Oi!” I yell, already moving toward them.
“Axe!” Josie shouts.
“Walk away, asshole,” he snarls. “This doesn’t—”
“—end well for you,” I finish as my hand shoots out and grabs him by his scrawny neck, flipping him before slamming him hard against the wall.
He falls to the ground and then scrambles to his feet and runs away like a chickenshit.
I turn to Josie. She’s a deer in headlights, her breathing quick and shallow.
“Did he hurt you?” I ask, my eyes roaming all over her. If he left a single mark, I’ll kill the fucker. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she says, though her voice trembles. But then her eyes catch what’s tucked under my arm, and she smiles faintly. “My purse? How’d you know—”
“It’s all sparkly. It had to be yours.”
This earns me a proper smile. “Thanks, Axe. For real.”
“We definitely need a stricter invite list,” I say, annoyed that security let in whoever that guy was. I shrug off her gratitude. I did the bare minimum. Josie should not be thanking me.
“How about next year you pick a better theme,” says Josie. “Like unicorns or Care Bears.” Then she shakes out her arms and does a shimmy as if to reset her body or energy or some nonsense like that. She’s ridiculously adorable.
“I pushed for narwhals, but I got overruled.”
“Hmm, maybe Peppa Pig?”
“Or the Loch Ness monster. A proper Scottish beast,” I say.
“One Scottish beast per party is enough,” she says, poking me in the chest.
“Harsh but fair,” I say, and crook my arm for her to take so I can lead her back out into the safety of the crowd.
—
“Josie, I’ve been looking for you all over!” Honor’s on us as soon as we’re back to the dance floor. Her gaze flits nervously from Josie to me and then the door. “What happened?”
“Axe rescued me from the party pervert,” says Josie weakly. Her curls have gone wild, and they’re somehow as expressive as her face. “It’s not a big deal. Freddy Krueger wasn’t so thrilled that I kneed him in the balls.”
“You kneed him in the balls?” I ask, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. This lass is full of surprises.
“Have you got your inhaler? Do you need a snack for your blood sugar?” Honor asks, ignoring me completely.
“Actually,” says Josie. “I think what I need is a drink.”
Now, that’s an order I can get behind.
I steer us toward one of the heat lamps—Josie’s mummy getup is flimsy at best, and I don’t want her to freeze—and I flag the bartender. Within a minute, a tray of lemon drops appears. Josie throws back one, then another, and is about to go for a third before Honor intercepts.
“You’ll thank me tomorrow,” she says, but I’m glad to see the color back in Josie’s cheeks.
“Yes, ma’am,” Josie says, and salutes Honor, but Honor still looks worried. “Seriously, I’m fine! I promise! Go find Strike and dance and be disgustingly in love. I’m leaving in a minute anyway.”
“Will you make sure she gets straight into an Uber?” Honor asks me, as if there was any way I’d let Josie out of my sight until I knew she was safely on her way home.
“Of course.”
Honor cups Josie’s face, searching her eyes one last time to make sure she’s really okay, before finally walking away.
“So this whole party is weirdly rock ’n’ roll,” Josie says, breaking the awkward silence Honor leaves in her wake. “And also gross. Really, really gross.”
“Can’t argue with that.” I chuckle. “If I had my way, we’d all be home right now in our finest flannel jammies, curled up with a book.”
“I bet your pj’s are tartan,” Josie says.
“Aye, of course. Finest sheep’s wool in the Highlands. But I won’t ask about your sleeping costume, mind you. Wouldn’t be proper.”
She gives me a look, half-amused, half-exasperated. As if she knows I don’t usually use the words sleeping costume, and that I’m laying the Scottish on a little thick for her benefit. She’s not wrong. I’ll use every tool in my arsenal to soften this one.
“Being proper has never stopped you before,” she says. Is she…flirting? Usually, Josie makes it clear she’d rather clean dog poo off her shoe than talk to me.
“You’ve got me there.” Josie looks like she’s trying not to smile, which only makes me grin bigger. “All right, then, what do you sleep in? A sparkly nightie to match your purse? I bet you dream in glitter.”
Josie laughs, a full, real laugh, and now I do want to know what she wears to bed—and what she looks like waking up. I bet her hair is a right mess, her face warm and sleepy and open.
“I think I should go,” Josie says, looking up at me through those impossibly long lashes. “I’ve had a rough day. And that was even before Freddy Krueger.”
“Let me call you a company car,” I say.
“Uber is just fine for me, Mr. Fancypants.”
“Mr. Fancypants? Ach, never mind. I’ve heard worse. Let me walk you out. It’s the least I can do after that gobshite attacked you at my ‘really, really gross’ party.”
We walk slowly around the place and toward the front gates, Ravenswood lit up behind us.
The din of the party feels muffled, and it suddenly makes sense to me why this building has been used in so many films. The effect of the space transforms completely depending on your angle.
A minute ago, we were trapped in horror Hell—now it feels all grand and majestic, and Josie looks like a heroine who should be properly kissed by a soldier returning from war.
Once we reach the end of the driveway, she turns to face me, and I can’t help it. I reach out to cradle her jaw. My touch is light, careful as I brush my thumb against her cheekbone.
“You sure you’re okay, lass?” Josie looks up at me with surprise, like she’s seeing me for the very first time. She’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. She’s magnetic, and it’s taking every ounce of self-control I have in my body not to pull her against me.
“Honestly, I’m not sure what I would have done if you hadn’t come along.”
“You would have been just fine. You’re strong and scrappy.”
“Right,” she says, her voice full of doubt. I don’t like this impulse I’ve noticed other folks have around Josie. They treat her like she’s a wee delicate thing, like she’s fragile when it’s clear she’s anything but.
“Honestly, that guy was lucky I intervened. Otherwise, I bet you’d be carrying his dick around in your handbag right now.”
She laughs, and then my eyes drop to her lips.
I wonder if she’s feeling this undeniable pull.
But I step back. I will not take advantage of this moment, no matter what my body is telling me.
But then, to my shock, she’s the one who takes another step forward, and wraps her arms around my neck.
And then, like magic, her lips are on mine.
Her kiss is tentative at first, the slowest, barest of brushes, and I’m too stunned to move, my every nerve crackling with the realization of what’s happening.
I feel the blood rush warm through my body, and I savor this whisper of a kiss—warm like honey and tasting of strawberries.
She pulls away to look up at me with round eyes, as if she’s just as stunned as I am at what she’s done.
I assume she’s going to step away—she’s still the same Josie who has made it very clear she despises me—and I feel inexplicably bereft at the thought.
“One more kiss,” she says under her breath, as if she’s negotiating with herself. I don’t know if she even realizes she said the words out loud. “Just one.”
She leans in, and this time all her tentativeness is gone.
Her teeth nip at my bottom lip, and I respond hungrily.
I pull her against me and feel the wind knocked out of my lungs.
I wonder if she can feel my heart knocking against hers.
We taste each other eagerly, all tongues and hot mouths and that desperate chase for more, more, more.
And then Josie pulls away.
“Sorry,” she says, and I laugh, because I’m obviously not complaining. “I don’t know what happened just now.”
“I do,” I say, feeling the corners of my mouth tug up. I want to pull her back. I’m not done with that mouth.
“I plead temporary insanity,” Josie says, and though disappointment floods through me, I try to not let it show on my face.
“Well, we are at the Asylum. You were just going with the theme.” An Uber pulls up to the curb in front of us—an old Honda Civic driven by a pimply teenager—and I want to scream with frustration at the timing. I don’t want her to leave.
“Good night, Axe,” she says, hopping into the back seat. She looks a little smudged and confused, and is that regret I see on her beautiful face? Please, anything but regret.
“Good night, Josie,” I say, fists in my pockets. I stand on the curb, watching until the car’s taillights disappear into the night, wondering how soon I can see her again.