Chapter Two
Rowan
I stare at the fucking mountain of paperwork overcrowding my desk, and curse the recent influx of hits.
The Kill Catalogue has been overflowing these last few weeks, leaving me to work with my team on clean-up duty.
There are currently several assassins waiting for their payouts to hit, and I’m in the process of organizing who gets what and wiring it to their accounts.
There are some government officials waiting for their portion, and a precinct that still needs its database wiped.
I rub the heel of my hand over my eye, feeling the beginning of a headache piercing my temples. My computer and the window behind me are the only sources of light in my office, illuminating the hardwood floors and bookshelf stacked high with encyclopedias.
It’s all remained untouched since my father was in charge of the Midwestern branch.
Thinking of him evokes bitter resentment in me. I never thought I could hate a person as much as I hated Jack Kinglsey.
Growing up, I fought to keep the light. I tried so damn hard to be a beacon of hope for my siblings. When Atlas or Thalia started to slip, I was always there to catch them. I made it my duty to ensure they didn't turn out too fucked up to function.
But my old man had other plans.
The training and punishments were always brutal: being left in solitary confinement for days with no food or water, sparring with my siblings until one of us was knocked unconscious or beaten so badly we had no choice but to stop, and Jack’s personal favorite, leaving us out in the wilderness with nothing but the clothes on our backs for days on end.
During survival weeks, we were separated.
Thalia was only ten, but excelled at finding drinkable water and scoping out high ground.
Atlas couldn’t fucking care less and always found a way to hunt or fish for food, but my task was always to reunite us.
I would search for days, following footprints and tracks, until I stumbled across one of them.
After that, the other usually wasn't far behind.
We all shared a common hatred for our father, and that kept us bonded. I would laugh and make jokes to distract them as I plotted a route back to civilization. I like to think I did a pretty good job making up for where my father lacked. My siblings seemed happy despite our home life.
Until my senior year of high school.
Dad found out about my girlfriend, Harley, and nothing was the same.
Not after the horrors he put me through.
He gave me two options: either she dies, or I take her place.
I chose the latter and experienced my first near brush with death.
He had beaten and tortured me so badly that I begged for my own demise.
It would have been better than the mind-numbing pain I felt for days.
“You still breathing, son?” Jack asks, the smoke of his cigarette billowing from his lip.
The hidden room of my parents’ torture chamber in the shed reeks of chemicals and the lingering remnants of decay. Even with my nose broken and battered, I can still smell it.
My lips are dried and crusted with old blood as a fresh gush of the essence coats my mouth. I try to speak, but can only manage a mumble so low it’s barely audible. “Yes.”
Everything hurts. It’s so bad it makes my body feel as if pins and needles are prodding me from every angle. Not an inch of my skin feels comfortable. My arms are chained behind me, and the concrete below me cuts into my bare knees.
He hums roughly, squatting down in front of me. If I still had the strength, I would recoil.
What day is this?
Day five, I think.
It’s hard to tell when the only sunlight I get is when Dad opens the hatch. He takes the occasional break to eat or sleep. I can't tell if it’s worse when he’s here or the long hours he leaves me alone to suffer.
He takes the cigarette out from between his lips, pressing the burning end to my chin. It sizzles out, my blood killing the flame before it can scar me. “A fucking shame.”
He stands and stalks over to the workbench that holds tools stained with my blood and the blood of past victims. He hovers his hand over a serrated knife, his fingers ghosting the engraved handle before he picks it up and tests the weight of it.
“This is for your own good, Rowan. You’ll thank me one day.”
I close my eyes, letting the pain roll off my shoulders. I can still feel it all as if it happened yesterday. Every slice into the skin of my back, every snapping bone, and every wrecked sob that left me.
It still hurts.
I shake my head, refusing to get trapped in a day terror that’s haunted me on repeat for years. I don't have the time to get lost in the past. I have a pile of deadlines and an organization to run.
I get lost in breaking down hit costs for a while. My brain is on autopilot when something slips out from under a stack of papers. My eyes snag on the photo instantly, and I pick it up.
Everything falls away as I absently settle in my chair. My back hits the rest as my eyes soak in dark, brown hair with a tinge of red in it. Those big hazel eyes, framed by thick lashes, almost connected with my phone when I snapped the photo.
I rub a finger across Addison’s face, something stirring to life in me that shouldn't be there.
It’s just infatuation—curiosity.
I promised myself that after the last run-in, I would drop it, but after meeting her for the first time at Sweet Haven, it became a persistent, unrelenting itch.
I’m sickened by myself.
I’m a fucking hypocrite.
I bitched at Atlas over stalking Loxley, and the whole time I've been following her best friend around like a creep.
I don't know what it is about her. Our first encounter wasn't pleasant, but it stuck with me.
I had to force myself to leave Sweet Haven after the grand opening.
That night, I sat up in my office, my eyes red and burning with a lack of sleep as my brain picked apart her every discernible feature, and a bold attitude that made my dick hard after years of being celibate.
Maybe it’s the hatred I’m feeding off of?
Maybe it’s the challenge I see in her eyes every time we ‘bump’ into each other.
Or maybe it’s because from the moment I spotted her, time ceased to exist. The sun-kissed, golden-toned skin, wide hazel eyes, thick, dark lashes framing them, and shiny auburn hair had me blinking myself back to reality. I was altogether stunned and in awe.
It’s been a while since I had sex, or even thought of touching another person.
When you’re in my line of work, you don't have the time for connections, and everyone walks on eggshells around you. I’m in charge of the paychecks, so it isn't unnatural for the others to steer clear of me out of fear of pissing me off.
I can't even remember the last time I had a drink with someone who wasn't either of my siblings.
Which is why it was refreshing when Addison called me an asshole. It irked me, but a small part of me reveled in it. Finally, someone who wasn't afraid to speak their mind when it came to me. She wasn't intimidated. She just seemed so natural.
So light.
Intelligence has always been attractive to me.
It's been a weakness of mine since long before I knew what infatuation or love was. Addison had no idea, but she awoke me in a way I can’t control.
Even now, sitting in my fucking office while she’s a state away, my leg bounces as my fingers pinch one of the many photos I’ve collected over the last week.
I’m disgusted with myself.
I shouldn’t be watching her every move. It isn’t right to destroy someone’s safety like that.
My whole profession is unethical, but I had a line–a boundary.
It was put in place to ensure the Midwestern branch always had a leader.
If I were to succumb to the traumas my father put me through, I would have died long ago.
A sense of duty kept me alive, and now Addison Bright has me feening for something I shouldn’t want. I want to possess her–own her and the light that seems to come so easily to her. I want her in the palm of my hands, begging and pleading for what only I can offer her.
I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose before tossing the photo atop my paperwork. I curse when I have to stand from my desk so I won’t stare at her face like the pathetic fucker I am.
In the photo, she’s smiling at a man as he passes her on the street, her dimples on display as pouty lips pull up cordially. It’s friendly–innocent.
But I wanted to snag the stranger by the fucking neck and snap it for even looking at her.
“I’m delusional,” I sigh, shaking my head.
I spot the rest of the photos buried beneath my paperwork.
“I’m stronger than this,” I mutter before walking over to the window and propping myself against the frame.
The compound rests in the distance, calm and quiet.
I spot a few houses, Alana and Connor’s being the closest to me.
I attempt to distract myself by counting the tiles on their roof, but curse when that nagging feeling returns.
My fists clench at my sides, and I feel like a fucking addict as I rub a hand over my mouth.
Fuck it. Who’s going to stop me?
I stalk to my desk and shove a stack of papers aside, revealing several shots I got: Addison at the coffee shop ordering her usual, her working the crowd outside of Sweet Haven, getting into her SUV, and sitting on a bench in the park.
I hold them in my hands, shuffling through each one like I do every day.
It’s always the same. I stare at her face, my eyes memorizing every inch of flesh I can.
Shapely, perfect legs, long hair that catches the light and has a red hue I’ve never seen before, and wide eyes full of intelligence and warmth.
Fucking beautiful.
But oh, so infuriating.
What is it about her? I’ve never been so enthralled by a woman that I resorted to Atlas-level fuckery…