Page 62 of Brazen King

But as I hold it there, I find my hand is shaking.

That’s never happened before—not even when I killed my first target.

My heart hammers painfully against my ribs, silently protesting. As if to say that what I’m about to do could be the biggest mistake of my life.

A deep throbbing ache begins in my chest—one that’s entirely different from the intoxicatingly pleasurable one Killian awakens between my thighs. No, this ache is jagged, raw, like the edge of a serrated knife sawing against my sternum.

I can’t do it. I can’t kill the man I’ve been trying to kill for weeks now, the man I’ve been dreaming about killing for months.

I’ve murdered more men than I can count, all in the name of my father, but now, it’s as if my nerve has completely failed me.

No, worse—because I’m not scared of murdering Killian.

I’m terrified of living without him.

Horrified by that realization, I freeze. My blood turns to ice in my veins as I lie naked in his arms, my blade hovering less than an inch from his carotid artery.

He looks so impossibly calm, peaceful, perfectly at ease with the possibility that I could end his life, here and now. And I wonder if he already knew I couldn’t face his death—that I care too much about him to end his life.

Damn you, Killian.

The heat of my frustration, my complete inability to prove him wrong, overwhelms me. And for a moment, I can almost find the steely defiance to go through with it, despite the consequences.

But as the blade creeps closer, my hand starts to shake more violently. My fingers go numb. My stomach revolts at the thought of stealing this infuriatingly enchanting man’s life.

Quickly, I withdraw the knife, slide it back into its sheath.

And before the tears of confusion can start to fall, I slip out of Killian’s arms and flee into the night.

27

KILLIAN

Light creeps through the sliding glass door of my balcony, alerting me to the next day. It’s just barely sunrise, but when I let my hand trail across the mattress in search of the woman beside me, the sheets are already cool from Natasha’s absence.

She must have left a while ago.

Heaving a sigh, I let my eyes slide open to confirm the fact. Then I roll onto my back to stare up at the ceiling.

Last night felt so perfect. So incredibly intimate.

Natasha let down her walls for me—if only for an instant. And it was beautiful.

Still, I feel a sliver of disappointment at not having finally caught my little bird.

It could be too easy to let that discourage me. Because every time I feel like we’re starting to make headway, she runs for the hills. But I refuse to give up.

I’ve never wanted someone so desperately, so all-consumingly.

And I don’t want to go back to the way life was without her.

Struggling to get out of my head, I roll out of bed and step into a steamy shower. I go through my regular routine of getting ready for the morning, focusing on dressing, brushing my teeth, finger-combing my hair into place.

By the time I come down to the dining room for breakfast, Lance is already there. A healthy serving of eggs, sausage, and freshly cut fruit is stacked on the plate before him, and he looks up from his cup of black coffee to study my face.

“Morning,” I say as he gives a curt nod.

Then, as my personal chef sets a three-egg spinach, mushroom, bacon, and swiss omelet in front of me, I reach over to grasp the pot of coffee and pour myself a cup of caffeine.

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