I toss the covers over her body, and she pouts.
“Is there something about a man in a mask that turns you on, Princess?”
She nods against the pillow as she settles on her side, her gaze still locked on mine. “I guess so. New kink unlocked.”
Duly noted. “Get some rest. I have work to do.”
She obediently closes her eyes. “Good night, Tristan.”
I lean in to kiss her forehead, and when I pull away, she’s smiling with her eyes closed. “Sweet dreams, Daphne.”
Hawkeye pads over to the crux of her legs and tucks himself behind the backs of her knees, trapping her in place for the night.
I leave the door ajar, making sure the hallway lights are off so as not to disturb her. I retrieve the Glock from the floor.
Taking it with me downstairs, I check that the safety’s on and put it on Daphne’s dining room table. Pulling the curtains shut on the first floor, I set up my laptop.
I know I made a promise to her to kill Brent Sokolov, but I hate the thought of being someone else’s hitman. I promised myself my motivations would always be my own. I would justify every death at my hands, and every time a death has saved hundreds or thousands of innocent Americans. But this is the first time since we’ve met that I feel useful to Daphne for a change. She’s helped me, and now it’s a chance for me to return the favor.
Time to figure out who the fuck is threatening Daphne.
CHAPTER TWELVE
DAPHNE
Tristan’s impersonationof a chainsaw is spot on. His snores echo up the stairs and under the crack in my door. Hawkeye trails behind me as I tiptoe downstairs, careful not to wake the Mack truck parked on my couch, buzz-sawing his way through sleep.
Retrieving my Glock, I stash it in an antique buffet cabinet drawer. I’ll return it to the gun safe later. I pad into the kitchen and let Hawkeye outside to do his business for a minute before he happily trots back inside and hurries toward his empty food bowl. I give Hawkeye a scoop of food before setting up my French press. Hawkeye dives into his food while I wait for the jug to boil.
Did Tristan find anything last night?
Peeking into the living room, his laptop screen’s gone black on the coffee table. I’m tempted to look. But he might hack my hand off with a machete if I touch his stuff. He’s unhinged. A killer. A psycho. The man drinks Pepsi and assassinates senators with peanut oil. There’s no knowing where his limits are—if he even has any.
His mask is askew, pushed up to reveal his neck gaiterwith a skull-mouth design. On anyone else, it would be an intimidating combination, but on a sleeping Tristan, he looks like he’s passed out at a Halloween frat party.
The kettle clicks, letting me know the water’s finished boiling. I pour water over pre-ground coffee beans until the scent of coffee blooms around me.
“Shit!” Tristan’s voice shouts from the couch, the chainsaw noise stopping instantly before Hawkeye bounds over towards me, the elastic of Tristan’s mask clutched between his teeth as the metal clangs beside him.
Hurrying behind my legs, Hawkeye’s tail wags in excitement, like it’s a game.
Tristan darts into the kitchen, halting abruptly when his eyes land on me.
His eyes.
Two colors—one blue, one brown. They’re beautiful as they hold my gaze, twinkling in the morning light like precious stones.
His skull neck gaiter covers up to the top of his nose, hiding his lower face from view. His dark brown hair pokes at odd angles in a messy case of bedhead that’s kind of cute.
“Morning.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I ask, “Want some coffee?”
“Yes, please.” The fabric over his mouth moves as he speaks.
My fingers itch to yank that material down and reveal his face—one clear image of the man behind the masks, the disguises, the secrets. Technically, I’ve seen his whole face now, but I can’t put the two pieces together to give me a full picture.
And I want a full image of Tristan—the real Tristan. Not American Guy Fawkes. Not someone lurking in disguises I can’t recognize.
Hawkeye drops the mask with a clang behind me before running to the back door with a whine.
