Page 91 of Three of a Kind

I can’t blame Maverick.

There’s no guarantee I would have recognized Dustin’s face.

It’s impossible to understand or explain what happens when you’re in a kill-or-be-killed situation. Your senses automatically hone in on the threat and possible ways to end your enemy before they get you.

I killed at least five men last night, and I couldn’t tell you what a single one of their faces looked like.

At least, not until we piled up the bodies and lit them on fire.

It was a rush job, and that never bodes well.

We did everything we could to wipe Noble’s presence from the warehouse by using accelerant on the bodies and in the room where he was housed, but there’s no way the entire building burned down.

Not unless the entire New York fire department was on vacation.

On the plus side, Merrick assured us there were no cameras or feeds that could come back to bite us in the ass. The downside is that I won’t feel settled until we’re the fuck out of this hellacious state.

That, or Avan Barrett is dead.

I’ll be able to breathe a little easier once that fucking piece of shit no longer draws breath.

Merrick promised Soren was doing what he could to help get Ivanov on our side, but he also had twins a few weeks ago. Their entire pack has other things to focus on.

Not to mention, the hell Ranger gave me when I finally called to update him this morning. To say my boss was furious that he had to hear about last night from Merrick would be a huge understatement.

Merrick is on my shit list.

I’m going to buy his new baby girls the most annoying, loud, tyrannical toys I can find to thank him for throwing me under the bus.

Libby plays well by herself. Honestly, she’s a really good kid. I want to interact and get to know her, but she’s more obsessed with Nova than anything.

I’m not expecting her to come over to me with her sippy cup tucked under her arm. Her long brown hair falls around her shoulder as she stares up at me from under her lashes.

“What’s up?” I ask, leaning forward.

Her foot dances around the floor as she points to me. I look down like a total goofball, thinking I’ve got one of her toys or something she wants.

It finally dawns on me, and I stretch back in the club chair. “Do you want to sit with me?”

Her head bobbles, and she kinda tosses her entire body at my knees.

I move to help her climb up, and once she’s situated, she rests her head back against my chest.

Libby pats around the arm of the chair without looking away from the TV. It’s been on in the background all morning, set to a kid-friendly channel.

She stretches the remote over her shoulder and drops it without making sure I’m going to grab it.

I laugh, shaking my head.

She reminds me a little of Maverick when he’s drunk. He gets cuddly, uncoordinated, and bossy.

It’s much cuter behavior coming from a toddler.

“Turn it up,” she says, suddenly entranced by the cartoon playing on the screen. “Please.”

I fumble with the remote and get it set on a reasonable level, without it being too loud.

“Thanks,” she mumbles around her cup. She grabs my hand from the arm of the chair and brings it to rest on her stomach. “I’m tired. Rub my tummy.”

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