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When it eases, I lift the other foot and step into the pants.

See? Not so bad.

I finish dressing, then silently move through the room.

Then I step into the hallway.

I shouldn't have slept with her.

I glance back and drink her in, memorizing the curve of her ass, the way her blonde hair spills across the pillow.

I’m sore as hell, but tonight... worth it.

I grit my teeth and head toward the stairs.

What the hell’s wrong with you?

This was absolutely fucking stupid.

I should regret her...

But I don’t.

I regret the complication.

My feet are silent as I pad down the stairs, glancing up once to make sure she’s not standing there, watching me.

Thank God she’s not.

Because if she was, I’d be screwed.

Not sexually.

Logistically.

She’d insist I’m not fit to leave.

And the worst part?

She’s right.

I snort out a laugh.

I’m a professional hitman with eleven years of experience. I’ve escaped dangerous situations plenty of times in my career.

And yet, I’m creeping through an aggressively decorated Halloween house because the five-foot-six blonde upstairs might catch me leaving.

My hand moves to my side. My wound throbs as I reach the door, but I grit my teeth and keep moving.

The cool night air hits me as I step outside and pull the front door shut behind me. The keypad lock engages with a quiet click.

Once I’m off the porch, I lift my phone to my ear and call the one person I can always count on: Beckett Bowman.

It rings.

And rings.

Come on, motherfucker. Pick up.