BANG.
A gunshot tears through the air. Pain explodes in my side, hot and fast, like a lit match dragged across my ribs. I hit the floor before I even register I’ve been shot.
“Aro—” I gasp, but the word is broken. Wet.
Then, glass shatters. A figure crashes through the window behind her.
Joe.
She doesn’t even have time to scream.
He’s fast. Too fast. One arm locks around her waist, the other shoving something—chloroform?—against her mouth.
She thrashes. Fights. But it’s over in seconds.
I try to move. Try to crawl to her. Try to dosomething. Anything. But the room spins and my limbs won’t cooperate.
Blood pools in my mouth. My vision darkens at the edges.
“No,” I rasp. “No—don’t.”
The last thing I see is Aro’s body, limp in his arms, disappearing through the broken window.
And then darkness takes me, too.
Chapter 42
Aro—1 year ago…
“And why exactly do I need a bodyguard again?” I ask, even though I already know. But poking the bear is a hobby at this point.
Marcus sighs, long-suffering. “We’ve been over this, Aro. I’m moving some new product that’s ruffling the wrong feathers. We’re hearing whispers in the Underground about possible retaliation, maybe worse. And since everyone knows you’re mine, you’d be the first target. Kidnapping. Ransom. Worse…”
It’s the way he says ‘mine’ that makes my eye twitch. Not the rest. I don’t even flinch at that anymore, which is its own kind of terrifying. Like some piece of my humanity got carved off, and I never even noticed it was missing.
“So basically, you pissed off the wrong guys.”
“Aro,” he snaps, shooting me a warning look from his leather throne of a sofa.
I roll my eyes and fold my arms, very obviously pouting. “Fine. Whatever.”
The truth is, I don’t mind the idea of a bodyguard. What I mind is Marcus. And today I’m feeling extra petty, because I caught him cheating—again. Honestly? In some messed up way, I was almost relieved. One, he owes me now, and two, I don’t have to sleep with him for a while.
Small wins.
A knock at the door saves us from another round of manipulative apologies.
“Come in,” Marcus calls, sounding bored.
His assistant peeks in. “One of the applicants is here.”
“Send him in.” He doesn’t even glance up from his phone. Classic Marcus. Make them feel beneath you before they even speak.
When the man walks in, my pout dies a fast, quiet death.
Holy hell.
He’s tall, broad, dark-skinned with a buzzed head and the kind of build that looks sculpted by God. Even in a suit, it’s clear he’s muscle stacked on muscle. I bet I could bounce a quarter off any part of him and hear it sing.
