Standing in front of her window, still a dirty mess, a wild river of red hair around her face. Those hazel eyes fix on me, and her gaze is a storm cloud about to burst.
The lass is holding me captive without a word.
Chaos and beauty. Fragility and fire.
My phone rings again, and I want to crush it. Even moreso when I see who it is.
“What doyouwant?”
“My office, next Tuesday, eleven a.m.,” the deep voice I don’t hear very often says in a drawl that has the hair on the back of my neck standing up.
“What’s this about?” I ask, but there is only one reason the head of a mafia house calls an assassin.
“You’ll find out when you get here.” Ares Zervas hangs up.
God, I hate that man.
I keep my eyes on Fallon. We stare as the city roars on around us, above and below.
For the first time in years, I’m feeling something dangerous.
Not rage. Not vengeance. Not a craving for the taste of blood.
Want.
For a woman I can never have.
Chapter 3
Fallon
Ilinger in place, my veins buzzing with Rhys’s golden eyes on me from his kitchen window, high above the narrow courtyard below.
He’s looked at me before across the bend in the building, but this time, he sees me. Really sees me.
That spark in his eyes when I mentioned the man bothering me wasn’t just anger. It was protection. Possession.
A boyfriend should be angry like that.
I turn from the window and press my hand to my chest. Gasping, I drag in a deep swell of warmth.
My thoughts spiral, tumbling over themselves, clinging to the certainty that I belong to Rhys. For real. He didn’t deny it. I didn’t imagine it. And that’s as good as confirming it.
I’m still covered in dirt and sweat, so I brush my cheek three times. A gnawing ritual I can’t quite stop or control.
Glancing back at the window from behind the shade, I see Rhys moving around his kitchen. He’s still wearing just a towel, back muscles singing, and tattooed forearms taut. He has a kettle on the stove and a cutting board littered with ingredients.
He cooks! But the parade of processed spices lined up on the counter makes my heart hurt with a painful, reckless rage.
Cheap supermarket jars, half-empty, labels faded. No freshness. No love.
“Oh, Basil,” I murmur to my potted herb. “Do you want a new home?”
‘No. It’s nice here.’
I giggle. “It sure is. But it looks nice there, too.”
When Basil is asleep, I’ll snip off a section and replant it for Rhys. It will make everything there smell amazing. And when the coriander is ready, it will be even better. But that will take some time, since I just planted the seeds.
