Some distant, very loud thought has me spinning around.
I check my security app. With all eight boxes clear of body heat and breathing, I tuck my cell away. This place can’t cool down fast enough.
Before I peel off these clothes, I remove the 9mm Glockthat I use for situations requiring stealth, and my .45 Sig for when I don’t care if I make a mess. I lay them on the long slab of marble that separates the kitchen from the living room. My hands move on autopilot, fast but precise, muscle memory guiding every motion.
I never pulled the trigger today, but Connor did. I still wipe down each gun for any blood splatter, inspect the slides, and check each barrel.
No step skipped. No margin for error.
I take out the knives next. The folding one I keep at my ankle, a longer blade is strapped to my back. With a whetstone, I sharpen both until the edges gleam. Each weapon goes into my steel cabinet, and I smile, seeing every slot filled.
Order. Control.
It’s the only way I know how to breathe.
And yet, as I shut the cabinet, Fallon’s voice clings to me.
There’s my boyfriend.
I nearly shit myself hearing that, but she said it softly and sure, like she wasn’t asking me. Like I’d already agreed, and she was gently reminding me of the fact.
She thinks it’s real. That I think it’s real.
It’s not, right?
I’ve been known to get pissed after a rough night of slitting throats and crushing bones with my fists. A few weekend benders sit on my scorecard, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t touch that cute redhead next door.
Or ask her to be my girlfriend.
I strip, toss my suit in a pile for the dry cleaner, and fling the rest into the hamper. In the shower, the water scalds my skin, steam filling the space. I lean both palms against the tile, head bowed, trying to make the noise in my brain stop.
Thoughts of Fallon don’t leave me. I’ve seen her watch me in the hallways, wide hazel eyes following my everymove. Half-curious, half-claiming.
I scrub my face hard, but her memory clings to every thought. Not the way she looked at me. Although that has my mind in a vise.
The mention of a man bothering her locks my jaw, and rage pulses hotter than the blistering pelts of water trying to cleanse me. Someone had the stones to harass her, to corner her enough that she picked up a bleedin’ weapon. If I’d been there, if I’d seen someone bothering her, there’d be one less bastard breathing in Manhattan tonight.
She’s fragile, that girl. More fragile than she realizes. But fragile doesn’t swing a shovel like she means to split a man’s skull.
The thought twists something low in me. I bite back a groan, water sluicing over my chest, down my stomach, stirring my cock awake. Heat surges in my balls, aching to come, unbidden with lust.
I curse, slamming the knob colder.
The spray turns icy, cutting through the need I don’t take further. I can’t. Not with her.
But then I remember the hard edge in her voice when she said she knows how to defend herself. And fuck, the image of her swinging that shovel burns in my brain.
I stay under the water until my pulse steadies, until the coil inside me loosens enough that I can breathe without seeing red.
When I step out, I stare at myself. I don’t always recognize the killer I’ve become. Finally, my survival instincts come back online, and the need for food makes itself known.
With the towel slung low around my hips and water trailing down my back, I pad barefoot into the kitchen to whip up a quick meal.
Sustenance.
The flat feels emptier than before, even with the bigwindow that looms over the courtyard below. I move past the row of black steel appliances and a farm sink to glance down as I often do.
It’s fifteen stories. But am I safe all the way up here?
