Page 24 of Rivals & Revenge

“Six million.”

“Twelve. I’ll pay you twice the bounty for us both.”

“Fuck!”

“All you gotta do is sit this one out—”

Before I could finish, he already answered.

“Sending you my info. If I see all those zeroes—I’m not feeling up to leaving the house this weekend, anyway.”

“You really care about this girl, huh?” he asked quietly.

“Honestly? I don’t even fucking know—I just know seeing her on the edge of death didn’t sit well with me.”

“You don’t know if you care, but you know she’s worth dying for?” he chuckled.

“Oh well, not my job to square that circle for you. Twelve million.”

“I’ll transfer now.”

A quiet click and the line went dead, my phone chirping the notifications nearly immediately afterward.

My shoulders felt lighter as I punched in Henri’s banking details, completing the transfer.

That took care of that. Henri was the last decent hitter in the region. With him out of commission, it would likely be another twenty-four hours or so before talent from other areas made it to our sleepy little town. It wasn’t much, but it gave us a small break—to form the next plan.

I pulled the soft cloth from my back pocket, making another pass over her bike. Beautiful. Sleek and dangerous; just like its rider.

With her knives cleaned and laid out on her bedside table while she slept, I needed something to keep my hands busy, so I started washing down her bike, removing every bit of dirt and debris.

The bike, like her knives, had been meticulously cared for. When I took in the bike’s condition upon its arrival, I knew she wouldn’t be happy. Thin splatters of mud striped the gas tank and headlight, dried into the crevices by the time I was able to get it home. Not to mention, it had gotten scuffed up a bit during transport.

She was in no condition physically to scrub the stubborn grime, so I had taken it upon myself to fix it for her. It seemed that had become a pattern with us lately; I think I preferred roses to kill orders if I were being honest.

“Why the fuck do I care about any of this?” I muttered to myself, tossing the rag aside and admiring my reflection in her tank. Henri had been right about one thing. I put myself in the position to die for this girl. I’d better figure out why.

I toed off my boots, leaving them in the garage, my feet nearly silent against the hardwood as I made my way to my favorite chair in frontof the fire, stopping to pour myself three fingers of Wolfsbane on the way.

The soft leather, heated by the fire, warmed my skin as I settled into its comforting embrace. The amber liquid tried to do the same on the inside, though it couldn’t quite reach the nameless chill that settled itself in the deepest parts of me.

Another sip and a flash of memory, too quick for me to catch, but enough to start my pulse racing. Another dose of Wolfsbane, another flash, this time in perfect focus. Tierney.

Anger and frustration burned like a cold fire, working me into a frenzy even the chilly night air couldn’t quell.

Then she was there, appearing like an apparition crawling toward me. Grit and determination etched in her flawless face—pure fire in her eyes; easily the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

And then there were the roses…

I swallowed hard. “Fuck!” I murmured to the empty room. “Just what I fucking need.”

My head dropped back against the chair, the glass dropping with a sharp thud against the table as my thoughts continued to race.

Her face flashed in my mind, morphing from one memory to the next. The fire in her eyes all but extinguishing as they met mine in that grove. Pained resignation as I stepped into the broker’s office. And finally, when she stopped me from leaving the house, only to ask me to kill her and save myself.

Death was part of our occupation. We all knew it was coming for each of us. While I didn’t mind her choosing me as her rival. Our not so friendly little competition had helped us both grow these past few years, iron sharpening iron and all that.

But something inside me, fractured at realizing she had designated me her personal angel of death. The blonde spitfire would seeminglyfight to the death against any other adversary, but three times now she offered herself up for the slaughter.

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