Chapter 20 From Kill List to Kiss List
KADE
The target died exactly how I expected him to.
One shot. Clean. Final.
Marko Petrov—arms dealer, human trafficker, the last name on a list I’ve been working through for eight years—didn’t even have time to reach for his gun before I put a bullet between his eyes.
He crumpled like a sack of meat, blood pooling beneath his head, staining the concrete floor of his pathetic excuse for a fortress.
Justice served.
This was about finishing what this bastard started when he arranged to run us off the road in that Vegas tunnel, thinking he could send a message.
When he left her broken and bleeding on asphalt.
When he forced my hand to make the hardest choice of my life, disappearing to keep her safe.
Now he’s dead, and I feel exactly nothing.
I’m halfway through dismantling his weapons cache when my phone vibrates.
Not ideal timing, but then again, I thrive on multitasking.
I glance at the screen, eyes flicking between live security feeds, encrypted intel, and—ah.
Amanda.
A new message.
AMANDA
NO YOU CANNOT JUST DO THAT
I smirk. Perfect.
I pocket my phone, shifting my focus back to the mission at hand.
We’re in a burned-out facility somewhere in the mountains of Montenegro, sweeping for intel, explosives, and whatever high-powered nightmare fuel these guys are dealing in.
The air is thick with dust and gun smoke, the concrete walls covered in fading graffiti and bullet scars from years of violence.
My boots barely make a sound as I move through the building.
Weapons stash? Secured.
Intel drives? Extracted.
Next objective? Amanda.
The mission is almost wrapped. Which means I’ll be seeing her soon.
Another vibration. I flick my eyes to my phone again.
FINISH THE STORY I AM NOT IN A PLACE TO BE LEFT HANGING LIKE THIS
I bite back a laugh, shaking my head. Oh, baby doll. You really think I’m gonna give you what you want that easily? I keep my hands on my rifle, but my attention flickers to another screen—the hidden feed from her apartment.
Amanda is pacing. Fast. Agitated. Her hands keep going to her phone, then to her hair, then to her phone again.
She’s muttering to herself. Cursing.
Fucking adorable.
WHERE ARE YOU EVEN COMING FROM
Maybe it’s a little cruel to edge her this much, knowing that I’m not going to be able to get to her for another thirty-six hours. But, God, I love her when she’s frantic.
Bergen’s voice crackles in my earpiece. “Building is clear. You good?”
“Yeah, wrapping up.”
I lower my weapon, moving toward the extraction point. We’re about to ghost this place, and I can already feel my body shifting gears.
“That’s it, then,” Bergen says as we reach the rendezvous point. “That’s the last of them.”
I stop, turning to face him. “You’re sure?”
Bergen nods, checking his gear with that casual efficiency that’s kept him alive for fifteen years in this business.
“Petrov was the head. With him dead, the whole network collapses.” He gives me a hard look.
“You got every single one of the bastards who threatened your girl. Happy now? This shitstorm cost us nearly a decade and more resources than I care to calculate.”
Every single one. This should feel like victory. Should feel like closure. Instead, it feels like the first true breath I’ve taken in eight years.
“Yeah,” I say, the word carrying more weight than Bergen could possibly understand.
My phone vibrates one more time. I check the screen.
She’s still pacing. Still waiting.
I exhale slowly, watching her. Not for much longer, baby doll.
Not for much longer at all. I pop an Ambien and catch some much-needed sleep on the flight back.
Mission debrief with the team takes most of Saturday.
We refuel at a base in Germany, go over the details, then finally get clearance to head out.
Nine hours across the Atlantic. I pop another Ambien and sleep through all of it.
Doesn’t put a dent in the last decade of not sleeping properly, but it’s a start.
The second we land, I don’t waste time. It’s Sunday morning in the city.
No point in being away from Amanda even longer. So I take a quick shower at the base, scrubbing away the sweat, the dust, the blood, the remnants of a job that’s finally done. I dry off, shrug a black tee over my chest, pull on my jacket, and head for my bike.
The morning air is crisp but warm, the first hints of summer creeping in. Feels clean. Cathartic.
Like a fucking reset.
Like whatever came before this moment doesn’t matter anymore.
Because now I’m going back to her. Not as a black ops operative with unfinished business. Not as a man with blood on his hands and a list of names to cross off.
Just as Kade. Her husband.
The city moves around me, but I barely notice it.
I weave through traffic with ease, letting the deep, throaty hum of my bike roll beneath me.
It’s a machine built for precision. Speed.
Power. And like me, it doesn’t hesitate.
I lean into a turn, gripping the throttle just a little tighter, letting the bike eat up the road beneath me.
Letting myself breathe through the anticipation of what’s coming next.
I think about Amanda the entire ride. Her name is a constant in my head, a weight that never leaves.
It’s killed me. Every single day apart has fucking killed me.
Not being able to touch her. Not being the one to hold her when she’s pissed off and pretending she doesn’t need comfort.
Not pulling her into my lap when she’s running her mouth.
Not cutting off her smart-ass remarks with my teeth on her throat.
Not dragging my fingers through her hair, pinning her wrists down, making her lose control the way only I can.
I know she’s been playing her little games with AI Chad, pretending she’s fine.
But she isn’t. Because no substitute version of me—artificial or otherwise—could ever be enough.
Not without the real thing. Not without my hands on her, my mouth on her, my cock inside her, stretching her, ruining her for anyone else.
Not without making her mine again.
Not without making this real again.
And after today? It’s over. The waiting.
The pretending. The distance. The missions that kept me away from her.
I have a plan. I have enough money saved up that she’ll never have to work again if she doesn’t want to.
I have a future mapped out, one where she never has to spend another second wondering where I am, if I’m coming back, or if she’s alone.
Now all I have to do is win her back. Convince her that she belongs with me.
Because she does. She always has. And I’ll make her remember exactly why.
I pull up outside her building, kill the engine, and pull out my phone.
It had taken her a while Friday night, but she’d finally fussed herself to sleep after her unfinished bedtime story.
That was a little selfish of me to do, but I want her nice and ready to see me.
I can deal with her murderous attitude. It actually makes her hotter.
I scroll back up to look at the backlog of messages she sent me yesterday.
3:32 P.M.
I cannot believe you left me high and dry like that. This is psychological warfare.
4:47 P.M.
So you just get me all worked up and then disappear??
5:10 P.M.
Wow. Wowwwww. Unbelievable. You’re dead to me.
7:55 P.M.
I take it back. You’re not dead to me because I want you alive so I can kill you myself.
I would have responded, would have happily antagonized her, but unfortunately, cell service was nonexistent when I was passed out forty thousand feet above the Atlantic, sleeping off the hunt of the last of the men who threatened our happiness.
I chuckle, shaking my head. Oh, baby doll.
I’m about to give you exactly what you asked for.
I know her Sunday routine. She gets up early, earlier than she does on weekdays, even when she’s stayed out drinking.
She stretches first, arms high above her head, rolling out her neck like she’s shaking off the night before.
Then she pads into the kitchen, not for coffee—Amanda never bothers making coffee at home—but for her morning drink.
Lemon water with mint and cucumber. And last week, a dash of cayenne, because she “read somewhere it speeds up your metabolism.”
It lasted two days before she complained it was burning her throat.
I smirk at the memory, watching her now through the feed. She sips her overpriced, spa-influencer beverage, checks her phone, and then moves on to getting dressed. She always manages to look like it was effortless, even when she’s spent time putting together an outfit.
And then? She heads to Brookfield Place for brunch. Usually alone.
She says she likes the quiet on Sundays, that she enjoys having the morning to herself. But that’s not true. She’d rather have someone to go with. She just won’t admit it.
That’s fine. Because from now on, she won’t have to. From now on, that someone is going to be me. I turn back to her feed. She’s checking herself in the mirror, adjusting her outfit, turning just slightly to make sure everything sits right.
She doesn’t need to. She looks perfect. She always does.
I watch her bite her lip, head tilting, debating if she should change. She won’t. She’ll grab her bag in the next thirty seconds, slip on her sunglasses, and walk out the door.
And when she does? I’ll be waiting.
I resist the urge to text her. It would be too easy. Would ruin the moment. I don’t want to warn her. I want to see the look on her face when she steps outside and finds me there.
Because today? Today is the day I start taking back what’s mine.
The last threat is dead. The mission is complete.
Now I can finally stop being a ghost and become real again.