Page 23 of Queen of Blades

Getting on one knee, he looked over the corpse. Dull, blank eyes stared up at the ceiling. The hole in his forehead smoked and leaked blood. Cocking his head, Paul frowned. He didn’t recognize the man. Whoever sent him hadn’t sent their best.

Why would they? It was just a woman.

They obviously hadn’t done their research. The next person coming after her would be better.

Lifting the fake bellhop’s shirt revealed quite a few tattoos on his abdomen and chest, but nothing he was looking for. He pushed up the right sleeve and then the left, and there it was. On his inner bicep, the large clover tattoo.

“Damn. The Irish,” he muttered.

“Is that bad?” Harper asked from over his shoulder.

“Goddammit, woman!” He spun and got to his feet. “I told you—”

“If you think I’m just going to sit around and wait for someone to kill me, you’re fucking nuts.”

She had a point, but they didn’t have time for this. “Get your shit.”

Blinking at him, she stood still, holding on to her arm. “What?”

Already scrambling to grab shoes and anything personal from the room, Paul pointed. “Your shoes,” he barked. “Put them on.”

He snagged his phone and tucked it into his pocket before heading toward the front of the room.

When she didn’t move, he growled. Snatching her purse and flats, he rolled everything in the blazer she’d worn the previous evening to make a sack of sorts. They had to go.

As he approached her, he saw the red spilling over her fingers.

Panic, which he didn’t have time for, gripped his throat. “Did he hit you?”

With his free hand, he knocked hers away to see the large gash gushing blood from the outside of her arm, just above her elbow.

As he examined the wound, she hissed. “Ow.”

“Fuck,” he cursed. “It looks like a graze.” Probably the best outcome. “But we have to go.”

Forcing her to turn, Paul shoved Harper toward the door. The clock was ticking. He could practically hear sirens in the distance. It was definitely his imagination—the cops didn’t respond that quickly—but he didn’t want to be here when they arrived.

13

Harper

Onceoutoftheroom, Paul grabbed Harper’s upper arm roughly. Thankfully, it wasn’t the one with the bullet wound. She’d been fucking shot. The pain burned through her arm, pulsing as the blood spilled down past her fingers. But she didn’t have time to process that. They were on the move.

Paul dragged her down the hall as though she were a piece of luggage with a broken wheel. It didn’t matter that she no longer fought him. He was in a foul mood. To be fair, she’d earned it. Attempting to stab a guy had a tendency to piss him off. Add someone else trying to murder his mark, and Paul wasn’t having a good day. If she weren’t the target, she might have felt bad for him.

He kicked the door to the stairs and practically threw her through it. Stumbling, she squeaked, trying to keep her balance and not tumble ass over teakettle down the stairs. Once again, he grabbed her arm and yanked her as he charged downward.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” she admonished.

“You need to move your ass,” he snapped.

“Forgive me for not being faster. It’s not every day I getshot,” she replied snidely.

“I’llshoot you if you don’t pick up the pace.”

Barefoot, with her arm in searing pain, she raced down the stairs with him, trying to keep her balance. Finally, they got to the bottom, and he burst out into the parking lot, dragging her along with him.

They stopped when he got to a black BMW sedan. Releasing her, he glared. “Don’t run or you’ll get another bullet.”

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