He stares at me, clearly weighing options. I can almost see the calculations running behind those dark eyes. Risk versus reward. Exposure versus shelter.
The sirens draw closer, their wails cutting through the night.
“No civilians.” He speaks slower this time. A warning.
“No one will be there.” I cross my heart. “Just us.”
He gives a single nod. “Lead the way.”
Chapter 17
Kolya
Chloe punches in the security code.
The house is one of a dozen on this side of the street. White siding, blue shutters, gray shingles.
Cookie-cutter. Quiet. Safe.
Once the lock clicks, she pushes the door open and glances back at me like she needs my permission to enter her own friend’s home.
I nod, scan the street behind us, and follow her inside. The cool air is scented with jasmine and laundry detergent. Nothing like the fear-sweat drying on Chloe’s skin.
We don’t belong here.
Chloe wades through the darkness with familiarity while I assess the space.
Two exits. Front door. Sliding glass door in the kitchen. Three windows in the living room, low to the ground and easy to access. Sight lines clear across the open floor plan. Decent defensive position, if necessary.
Which it won’t be, because we aren’t staying.
The living room bleeds into the kitchen, all clean lines and neutral shades. My gaze pauses on a refrigerator plastered with photos. Chloe and a blond woman at a beach, at a concert,hugging in graduation gowns. A life documented, preserved, treasured. A ceramic bowl sits on the floor,MILOwritten across the front in block letters.
A cat. Of course there’s a fucking cat.
This was a mistake. Breaking into a civilian house is sloppy, the kind of action that gets people killed. People who aren’t involved. People like Bree with her cat food bowl and her jasmine air fresheners.
“We should go.”
Chloe shuffles into the living room and reaches for a lamp on an end table.
I cross the space in three quick strides, my fingers closing over hers. “No lights.”
She flinches. Her skin is warm under my palm, her pulse fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings against my fingertips. Hours ago, I had that same pulse beneath my lips as I kissed the hollow of her throat and drove her to gasp my name.
Focus.
A flash of movement catches my eye.
The headlights slicing the living room wall cast long shadows that crawl across the ceiling.
We spin in unison, her body pressing into mine.
Tires crunch. A car door slams.
I grab my gun.
“It’s Bree,” Chloe whispers. “She wasn’t supposed to be home.”
