Page 15 of Accidentally Kidnapping the Hitman

A frown creases her forehead.

“Is that—?”

She’s not yelling anymore, but I can read her lips. Just like I can feel her hands back there, frozen in horror at what they’ve found: the hilt of my second knife.

It’s a daily thing for me to wear, same as the one in my boot. They’re for protection, nothing more. Strapping those knives to my body is as common and boring as lacing up my boots and shrugging on a shirt, and I’d feel naked without their reassuring pressure—but as Annie’s breaths go shallow and she steps robotically out of my arms, it’s clear that my knife doesn’t reassureher.

“Annie—” I start to say, reaching for her again.

She backs up so fast, she presses against the painted wall. My gut plummets at the sudden distance between us; at the fear in her green eyes.

“Whoareyou, Dean Kinnear?” she says, her words nearly swallowed up by the music. Despite the hot basement room, she’s pale.

My throat goes tight, and I don’t know how to respond. If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t have made the choices I did. I’d never have gone down the wrong path at all.

“Annie,” I try again. Palms raised, moving slowly, I step into her space again—then duck my head and speak directly into her ear. A shiver coasts through her body and makes my head swim. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.” The delicate shell of her earbrushes against my lips as I speak, and fuck, I want to rewind the last thirty seconds. Want to go back.

Ihadher.

Everything I ever wanted—it was in my arms. She was sweet, eager,mine.

Now Annie Lowell’s gone rigid as I stand too close, her hands balled into fists by her sides. She jerks her head from left to right, blonde hair slipping over her shoulders. Refusing.

She won’t go somewhere with me. Won’t let me explain. But even if Annie did agree to talk—what would I say? How could I explain to her that yes, I’m a killer, but I haverules?

I’m not some psycho. I’ve been doing the dirty work to make the world a better place. And the world has fewer monsters because of me, but none of it is worth jack shit if it loses me Annie.

“Sweetheart.” It’s too fucking hot in this club, too humid with everyone’s body heat, and yet my skin is icy cold. “Let me explain.”

Another shake of her head.

My chest cracks open. The split is agonizing, and the pain echoes all the way down to my marrow. Is this it, then? Is this how I finally lose all hope?

“Please, Annie.”

Her panicked breaths puff against my throat, then she places her hands on my chest. For a moment, it feels so fucking good to have her hands on me again, her warmth bleeding through my shirt and thawing the ice creeping over me—then she shoves forward with all her might.

I stumble back out of shock more than anything. Annie’s a little slip of a thing, and if I planted my feet, she couldn’t move me a single inch. It’d be like trying to shove a boulder onto its side. But move back I do, and she slips around me quicker than aflash and disappears into the crush of bodies on the dance floor. Chest numb, I turn and watch her go.

The gleam of her blonde hair flashes in the gaps between people here and there, and I could chase her easily, hunt her down like we’re still playing laser tag—but why would I do that? Everything has changed, and we’re not playing a game. If I stalk after her, if I refuse to let her go, I’ll be the monster she thinks I am.

No: Annie felt my knife. She pushed me away, and I’d rather die than scare her even more.

As far as I’m concerned, Annie’s decision is final.

Eight

Annie

My teeth are still chattering with fear as I let myself into my apartment, checking back over my shoulder for the hundredth time. The door closes with a snap, and I thread the security chain—as though a flimsy thing like that could keep a man like Dean Kinnear at bay.

He’sbig.Strong. As agile and powerful as a panther. The way he hunted me so easily in that laser tag warehouse… the way he brushed aside those locks in the escape room like they were cobwebs…

It all makes sense now.

Dean Kinnear didn’t leave our suburb to lead an ordinary life. He’s some kind of agent or enforcer; an assassin or spy. The type of person who wears a knife strapped casually to his body.

“Oh god.” My damp palms scrub against my pants, and I stare dry-eyed through the peephole at the corridor outside. Empty. He didn’t follow me here… as far as I can tell. “Oh hell. This is bad.”

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