Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“I’d do it again,” he says darkly. “And if those men today hadn’t listened to you, if they had made a move, they’d be dead. No hesitation.”
“Is that what you do?” My voice shakes. “Do you kill people for hire?”
He holds my gaze, his jaw clenched.
A beat.
“Not always. Depends on who it is.” He looks away. “And that’s already telling you too much.”
Not always.
Then… that means yes.
My voice trembles. “Would you really kill someone?” I whisper. “If they deserved it?”
“Only the worst of them,” he growls. “The predators. The ones no one mourns. Scum of the fucking earth. That’s who I take jobs for.”
His fingers drift through my hair tenderly, too tender for who he is.
“I don’t talk about it.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because it pays well. And I’m fucking good at it.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just looks past me, and then back, his voice low.
“If they told me to put a bullet in the head of some cheating bastard like your husband? I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth. This is scary—all of it. Us.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He drags the laptop toward me and opens it.
“Password’s one, two, three, four,” he mutters. “Everything’s yours to see. Just don’t send. Don’t reply. Camera off. Got it?”
I nod, and he kisses my cheek—not soft, not hard. Just… final.
“I’m going to get changed,” he says. “Poke around. If you find something you can’t live with, I’ll leave. Snow’s melting. You can go back to your life. I won’t stop you.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the fire hissing and the truth still echoing through the room.
I’m not sure if what he just told me… was love. Or a warning.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Owen
The fire pops. Wind claws at the windowpanes, and a delicate swirl of frost blooms across the glass.
I’m waiting for a reaction.
But there’s no scream. No frantic tapping of keys. No gasp, no sharp cry, no angry slam of the laptop.
Just silence. Good… I think?
I take my time getting dressed, tugging on a pair of sweats but no shirt. She likes it when I walk around half-dressed, even if she tries not to look. Always has a peek, that one.
I watch the way her eyes widen, the way her neck flushes. When she’s in bed, I see how her thighs shift under the covers. It reminds me of the way she looked when she was off-limits, only now, we’re two consenting adults who can do whatever the fuck we want.
I know exactly what that means.
I dry my hair slowly, deliberately. No rush.
I have no regrets about the jobs I do. The work I’ve done. The only thing I’d change is how I treated Emma.
I let her go.
Would I have chosen a different path if I knew the two of us had a chance? Yeah, of course. But now? I’m in too deep.
I drag the towel across my scalp, slow, rhythmic, my eyes closed. And just like that—I’m back there.
Back home. Back in the woods behind the house, where the creek ran cold even in the dead heat of summer.
Five years ago
“Let’s go for a swim,” she said, her eyes dancing.
Her mom was working. So was my dad.
It was a lazy summer afternoon. She’d just graduated. I didn’t have a shift until nighttime.
“Aye,” I said. “Let’s go.”
I swallowed hard when she stepped out in that one-piece black bathing suit. Modest as hell and covered way more skin than the tiny scraps the girls at the town pool wore.
But still—she was beautiful.
And I loved her.
I noticed the curve of her hips. The soft swell of her breasts. The strip of bare skin where her back arched.
Untouchable.
And I wanted her so fucking bad.
I turned away, but not before I saw the way she looked at me.
I was bare-chested, wearing just swim trunks. My body was cut—hours in the gym, training like it mattered.
At nineteen, that’s what a guy did. Muscle meant something. I had a few tattoos then.
And the abs.
And the arms.
And she knew it.
She came downstairs and stopped cold. Eyes wide, mouth parted.
Might’ve been the first time she ever really saw me like that.
“Why is it,” she asked, hands on her hips, “that women get screamed at for not covering up, but men walk around all summer half-naked, and no one says a damn thing?”
“Fucking double standard,” I muttered, shaking my head.
“It is a fucking double standard—”
“Hey,” I cut her off, snapping a little. “Mind your tongue.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “Seriously? You’re telling me not to swear? When we’re literally talking about a double standard? Owen, listen to yourself.”
“I don’t fancy it, you swearin’ like that,” I said, my voice low.
“I don’t like it when you tell me what to do.”
I twirled the towel into a rope and gave her a quick snap to the backside. She squealed, her cheeks turning pink. “Yes, you do. Now fetch your towel—we’re off to the creek.”