Page 28 of Three of a Kind

Avan Barrett didn’t just get told flat-out fuck no. He got me interested in what kind of piece of shit would hire someone to kill his own child and her mother.

Let alone a woman pregnant with his second child.

No.

I couldn’t let that stand.

It’s what brought me to the city.

Brooklyn isn’t the most aware of her surroundings, considering I watched her on and off for nearly two weeks prior to moving into her building.

No one who knows me professionally would consider me a hero, but I sure as fuck left California to come nearly three-thousand miles just to make sure no one else took the contract Avan was offering.

I’ve never had a problem keeping my nose out of other people’s business…until it clicked that, since I didn’t take the hit, someone else might.

Only one newbie bottom-feeder has been stupid enough so far, and he met his demise in an alleyway only a few blocks away. It was one of the more satisfying moments of my life when he straight-up pissed himself when he realized who was following him.

I’ve considered taking the contract since then, just so it would no longer be active, but I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

I don’t want that shit anywhere near my resume. So, I’ve perfectly positioned myself to take out anyone who might be inclined to sully their soul to that level.

I’ve never claimed to be anything but the monster I know I am, but even that persona has limits. And those hard stops come at killing innocent women and children because the man in question now wants to get married without the added complication of a child born out of wedlock.

Little does he know, he’s got a second on the way, but I can’t blame Brooklyn for keeping that to herself.

Her instincts were spot on.

What the 1800s level of hell is that bullshit, anyway?

I get the logic behind it. If he’s marrying for an alliance with another powerful family, then Brooklyn and Libby are a complication some families would want no part of.

In that case, he should have kept his dick in his pants.

I blink awake, feeling like I’m burning alive. It doesn’t take long to realize that’s not me.

It’s Brooklyn.

She’s snuggled up to my side with her face on my chest and her arm tossed over my middle. The home screen is up on the TV, providing just enough light that I can clearly see her face.

Her cheeks are pink, almost like when someone is sick or overheating.

I bring my fingers up, brushing them over her skin.

That’s not a good sign.

Brooklyn moans, jolting in her sleep.

I frown even harder.

Fuck me.

She smells ridiculously sweet, almost like she’s on the verge of going into heat. However, I’m almost positive that heats stop once conception occurs.

“Brooklyn,” I murmur, studying her lips as they push together in her sleep. She’s got her legs curled behind her on the cushion, and her feet twitch. “You doing okay down there?” My thumb traces her jaw, and the urge to brush it over her plush bottom lip is strong.

She grunts, snuggling closer. It’s cute as fuck, but the closer she gets, the more obvious it is that she’s burning up.

“Hey, Mama,” I try again. “Wake up for me, pretty girl.”

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