Boss angled his head toward Hew. “You two go on. I’ll follow this one to the compound.”
“Ya sure?” Hew’s voice was reluctant. “She’d rather shoot a man than blink.” He hitched his chin toward Black Widow.
Boss’s answering wink was quick, confident. “I’ve dealt with far worse than her. And besides”—he patted the bulging grip of the pistol riding high in his shoulder holster—“if she tries anything hinky, I’ll drop her.”
The words were for Hew, sure. But Sabrina knew they were more for Black Widow’s benefit.
Hew dipped his chin, decision made. Then he turned slightly, his voice a growl. “Hang on.”
Don’t gotta tell me twice, Sabrina thought, and tightened her arms around his waist.
When he gunned the throttle, Freedom leaped forward like the two-wheeled monster it was, eating up the pavement in great, roaring chunks. The warm wind whipped tears into her eyes until the city blurred around her.
She didn’t care. She didn’t need to see. Not when every ounce of her being was focused on how good it was to touch Hew again.
She hadn’t put even a fingertip on him in two weeks, and holding him now proved how much she’d missed the feel of him. The solidity of him. The unimaginable warmth of him.
In what felt like mere seconds, the wrought-iron gate of BKI loomed. Manus Connelly was quick to hit the switch that sent it rattling open. But even after Hew guided them into the compound, Sabrina couldn’t fully relax.
Black Widow was coming.
And she couldn’t shake the feeling that the assassin was bringing something sinister with her.
42
Black Knights Inc.
“He’s found me. He’s following me,” Black Widow declared staunchly, and Hew fisted his hands so tightly he could feel his blunt nails leaving crescent moon marks in the skin of his palms.
They were sitting at the scarred kitchen table inside the cottage in the far front corner of the property. It was a squat little house with creaky floorboards and lace curtains left over from another lifetime.
Back when BKI had been a menthol cigarette factory, the foreman and his family had bunked here. Nowadays, the place only got dusted off for rare occasions. Holiday shindigs, birthday bashes, or the odd wedding when the OG Knights and the current active members all gathered and extra space was needed to house everyone.
Or when we need a spot away from the shop to talk to someone who isn’t welcome within spittin’ distance of our main operation, Hew thought.
After Boss had followed the assassin into the compound, he’d pointed them all toward the cottage. And even though Hew had damn near barked himself hoarse telling Sabrina she should stay inside the old factory building where it was safer, she’d firmed her stubborn chin, crossed her arms, and declared, “I’m as much a part of this as any of you. Probably more so since she’s abducted me twice. So I’m coming with you.”
Ayuh. He’d wanted to point out that Black Widow had abducted her twice. And since no one wanted the assassin to have a chance at a third go ’round, all the more reason for Sabrina to keep herself behind locked doors.
But Hew hadn’t reached the ripe old age of thirty-six without learning a few immutable truths. And right at the top of that list?
Arguin’ with a woman once she gets that look in her eye is about as practical as breathin’ underwater.
So he’d swallowed back every no, every don’t, every for Christ’s sake stay put. And had settled for plunking her down across from Black Widow while he and Boss kept their pistols hidden beneath the table and trained on the assassin.
“I’m assumin’ by he, ya mean Bishop,” Hew said now, squinting at the woman, looking for even a hint of subterfuge.
He saw no deception, but her expression did seem to scream, Duh. Her words just reiterated the sentiment. “Who else would I mean?”
Boss kept his voice even when he asked, “How do you know he’s following you? Have you seen him? Has he contacted you?”
Black Widow tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Hew didn’t know why she’d dyed it that god-awful shade, but if her goal was to look even more lethal…well, then…mission accomplished.
The color reminded him of clotting blood. The kind that dried under your fingernails and ruined your clothes.
“Of course I haven’t seen him.” Her tone was the epitome of exasperation, and Hew was finding it difficult not to pull her up by her ear, march her to the front gate, and toss her out on her ass.
“Or maybe I have and just didn’t know it, since I have no clue what he looks like,” she continued. “As for contacting me? I told you before, the way Bishop will contact me is by sending someone to slit my throat in my sleep.”
