Page 66 of Brutal Obsession

“All right, I’ve got you two in Room 415. That’ll be outside and to your left, at the end of the path.”

“Thank you.” Cian manages to sound civil.

“Do you or Mrs. Mahoney need any information on local attractions or restaurants?”

That question causes Cian to tense. If I weren’t already frozen in place, mummified by misery, I would have stopped on a dime too.

A strange heat swirls in my stomach like wine.

Mrs. Mahoney?

Could I really pass for Cian Mahoney’s wife?

The idea unsettles me so much, I stumble out the office door, leaving the men inside.

“We’re okay, thanks,” is the last thing I hear Cian say before I’m back in the parking lot, wandering aimlessly.

“The room’s this way.” Cian’s voice is too close for comfort.

And even with an arm covered in dried blood, he’s still too handsome for words. Must be nice, always having the upper hand. Always keeping his cool, even when everything’s falling apart.

I’m not dealing with this.

Without acknowledging him, I head toward the road. He moves with frightening speed and blocks my path within seconds.

When our eyes lock, for the first time ever, I spy an emotion resembling panic on his face.

“De Lucas.” He spits the name like a curse.

My eyebrows knit together. “Huh?”

“Those men today.”

Something cold drips down the back of my neck. “What are you talking about?”

“De Luca operatives are after you, Harper.” He sets his jaw. “So, if you want to live, I suggest you stop trying to get away from me.”

Ice slithers through my body, freezing my muscles solid and creating a mini-Arctic Sea in my gut.

The De Lucas hate the Kings, and vice versa.

If they want me, that means my freedom—and life—are even more at risk than I thought.

Chapter 17

Cian

Mrs. Mahoney. Mrs. Mahoney. Mrs. Mahoney.

I haven’t heard that name since my mom died. That phrase used to tear me up inside, thinking about my mother and her misfortunate role as my father’s bride. But hearing the term applied to Harper does something to me I never saw coming.

Like a bullet to my fucking heart.

The name continues to echo in the back of my mind as I usher Harper into Room 415. Artwork crafted from disassembled ukuleles decorates one wall. A tiny television set with a VCR underneath rests on a scarred dresser. Queen-sized bed with a blue comforter. A wicker couch with blue cushions that even grandparents from theeightieswouldn’t want.

One bathroom.

Lots and lots of blue.

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