“A hunch,” he repeats. “Exactly.”
A loud crunch breaks through the air and we jerk and turn toward the sound, both of us taking in the assassin leaning against the doorjamb eating a bag of chips as loudly as possible.
“Sorry to interrupt you two lovebirds, but I forgot my chips. And then you two were so enthralled I just had to watch for a minute.” His eyes flick between us. “You two going to fuck? Can I watch?”
I flush. “No. That would be unprofessional,” I say.
Dagen doesn’t say anything, but he does tilt his head toward Wylan, studying him.
“Well, I think one of the three of us should be with you at all times,” Wylan says, grinning. “In case the bastard shows up or you need someone to make out with.”
“I can’t be alone at all?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.
“What’s the matter, Ava?” Wylan purrs. “Worried you’ll be unprofessional with someone else?”
I narrow my eyes further, annoyed, and cross my arms. “What’s it matter to you?”
He laughs and shrugs, popping another chip in his mouth. “Just a note, you could make out with me and it’s not unprofessional. I’m an assassin. Rules don’t apply to me.”
I snort. “Yeah, okay.”
“I’m being serious,” he grins. “Not like any one of us hasn’t thought about it. Just because the billionaire made the first move doesn’t mean the rest of us aren’t also intrigued.”
“Stop messing with me,” I say, rolling my eyes and reaching for the plate again.
He walks inside the room, strolls up to me, and pops a chip against my lips. I open my mouth, and he pushes it inside, letting his finger touch my tongue. And what the fuck? Why is that so hot?
“I’m many things, love,” he purrs, “but I’m not a liar.” He glances over at Dagen, his eyes going cold. “Can I talk with you outside, mate?”
And then he strolls away, and legit steals my chips. So, I guess he is at least a thief, even if he’s not a liar.
Twenty-Nine
Wylan
Dagen follows me out into the backyard where I’d parked my motorbike, the sleek black machine barely perceivable in the growing darkness. We don’t talk until we’re far enough away from the house that Ava is completely out of earshot. What we’re about to speak about, it’s not for her ears. At least, not yet.
“How long are you going to humor her?” I ask once I check to make sure Ava hasn’t followed. I lift my matte black helmet from the bike and balance it on my hand like it’s a second head. I even face it toward Dagen like it’s part of the conversation and move it a little to make things more real. To his credit, he doesn’t even spare a glance toward it. The rich fucker is used to my antics.
“Humor her in relation to what?” he asks, playing coy.
“You and I both know this arsehole can’t live if Ava and Elsie are gonna be safe, yeah? This game can only be played for so long,” I say, raising my pierced brow at him.
I’ve known Dagen for longer than I should. I’m usually one to cut ties with clients, but Dagen is a sticky son of a bitch. Not only has he hired me to sneak into other companies and fuck up their shit, but I’ve taken care of some evil motherfuckers for him.
Including his own mother. But that’s neither here nor there.
“A little longer isn’t going to hurt things,” Dagen replies. “It’s important that she feel as if she’s making headway herself. If we just kill him, what sort of justice is that? You’ve seen the medical records.”
“Right, right,” I answer, shaking my head. “But in reality, this is all pointless. I can make it feel like justice if you just release the reins a bit. Cat and mouse never ends well when the cat plays with its food.”
And honestly, the longer we wait to take care of this fucker, the higher chance there is that something happens to Ava or Elsie. Not that I care. Well. . . I shouldn’t care. But the tiara Elsie gave me still sits nestled at the bottom of my backpack just in case we have another tea party. She told me I make the best tea and that I make a pretty princess. I liked it. Sue me.
And Ava. It’s been a long time since I’ve cared what happened to another human being. My career choice dictates that I care about no one but myself, yet here I am, worried we’ll slip up and she’ll get hurt. She’s got the best bloody security this world can purchase, but I can still slip through, which means there might be someone else who can, too. I don’t necessarily think that old Ricky Boy can do that, but I’m a great hitman because I never underestimate my target. And Old Ricky? He’ll be a desperate man soon. And a desperate and angry narcissist? Those are the most dangerous ones.
Dagen Fox is an arsehole, too. You don’t become a billionaire by being nice. But I’ve seen him far softer toward our girl than any other time I’ve seen him. Still, it doesn’t prevent him from being an arsehole with me. I know that. He knows that. It’s a game.
“Don’t tell me you care?” he goads, his hands slipping into the pocket of his thousand-dollar slacks. The urge to wipe some dirt on them is strong, but I resist. Fucker’d probably take it out of my pay.
