"Housekeeper. She called Keira a whore." I shrug. "Neck snapped beautifully. Very clean."
"Jesus, Tristan."
I probably shouldn't mention the tonic I slipped Dashkov.
"She was rude, Cat. I don't tolerate rude."
Aaron crosses the room in three strides and grabs me before I can brace myself. All the air leaves my lungs as he damn near cracks my ribs.
"Jesus Christ," he mutters against my shoulder. "You look like a fucking accountant."
"An accountant?" I shove him off. "I've killed eleven people this quarter. Accountants wish they had my numbers."
"The beard is tragic."
"The beard is Henri's. He's French. He's sensitive about it."
"Henri's dead."
My mouth pops open, appalled. "Even so, we've been through a lot together. Don't talk about him like that."
"He's lost it," Dom says, standing by the table.
"I never had it. You all just had lower expectations."
Aaron grips my shoulders, genuine concern buried under the bullshit. "Seriously. You good?"
"I've spent weeks watching a man who deserves to be skinned alive put his hands on the woman I love." I smile, and I know it doesn't reach my eyes. "I'm fucking spectacular."
"There he is." Aaron's grin turns sharp. "Thought the uniform might've softened you."
"The uniform's a costume. Underneath, I'm the same rich asshole you've always known. I do miss my suits, though."
Dom appears at my side and claps a hand on my back. "Weeksundercover with that sociopath. How the hell haven't you killed him yet? I wouldn't have lasted."
"Oh, I've killed him. Hundreds of times. In my head. Very creatively. I've got a whole ranking system. Current favorite involves a cheese grater and his eyelids."
Dom stares at me.
"Too much?"
"I'm just impressed you've shown restraint."
"I haven't. I've shown delayed gratification." I crack my neck. "Tonight, I collect."
"What about the self-control you're always bragging about?" Aaron asks.
"That was a rumor I started to seem stable. I'm not stable. I'm just patient." I flash him a grin. "And my patience officially expires at midnight."
Marco, Cat's right hand, shifts in the corner. He's dressed as a bodyguard for one of the network heads, with tattoos peeking from his collar and arms crossed over a chest the size of a refrigerator. The guy gets bigger every time I see him.
"Marco. You look like you could bench-press a sedan."
He doesn't smile—never does. Just nods once. "Barlowe."
"Still a man of few words. I respect the brand."
Silence.
