“Because…there is some indication that he may come after you.”
My stomach drops.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
“Director Han,” I say carefully, “are you telling me Enya is at risk?”
“Potentially.”
Potentially?
The single most useless word in threat assessment.
“She’s the only one without a security detail,” Director Han adds. “I’ve got a team moving right now to monitor her. You need to steer clear of this. You are not an agent any longer.”
“Noted.” I race past an idiot doing fifty in a forty-five; I don’t have time for this shit.
“Dom, do not engage Laskov.”
“Not unless he comes after what’s mine.”
“Dom,” Director Han warns sharply, “don’t do anything reckless.”
Fuck that.
I hang up, heart pounding with something far more dangerous than fear.
Rage.
Enya doesn’t know this world. She shouldn’t have to. She’s already been hurt—by me, by her family, by life.
If Laskov thinks he can use her to get to me….
No.
Not happening.
23
FLIGHT OR FLEE
ENYA
I’m closing the shop for the evening, humming as I stack empty vases, and wipe down the counter. Outside, the street is quiet, washed in a warm, honey-colored glow that settles in just before dusk.
Nick, finally, gave me time away from him—and for the first couple of hours, it was really lovely. Luxurious, even. But then I began to miss him. A lot.
How quickly you start to depend on someone.
How easily they become woven into the shape of your days—your whole life.
The bell above the door jingles.
I frown, glancing up. “Sorry, we’re closed.”
A man steps inside anyway.
Tall. Broad. The hood of his jacket is pulled low over his face, shadowing his eyes. He doesn’t apologize, doesn’t hesitate, just keeps walking toward me.
