Page 6 of Exposing Adonis

It cut to a darkened room, where the woman with a heart shaped face and wild, dark ringlet curls glared at the camera. The light washed out her deep tan, but couldn’t hide the freckles or the black bags under her eyes.

Her sweet, soft, Parisian voice read aloud.

“They say that if my ransom is not paid in forty-eight hours, they will chop off my head and deliver it to Alexander Baas in a …Putain! C’est quoi cette connerie?“ What is this bullshit? “How am I supposed to read that? Are you kidnappers because you failed out of school,tu gros con!”You big asshole!

The video cut out as the unmistakable silhouette of a black boot went flying into her face.

“Woman’s got brass ones,” the Frenchman said with a nod of approval. “I hope that it doesn’t move up the deadline.”

“We’ll HALO in tonight,” Callum continued, though I felt him glaring at the Frenchman. “That gives us twelve hours from now. We don’t need forty-eight hours, I want positive control of the package in less than twenty.”

“I should be the one to go in …” I interrupted.

“Hush, darling.” He kissed my cheek. “That’s not a fight I’m ready to have with you.”

“Don’t shush me,” I elbowed him in the rib and he grunted.

“Gentlemen,” Callum clapped his hand on the table and all the men dispersed. Alastair and Geordie back to the cockpit, and Hugo to his seat on the other side of the plane where he bundled up a jacket as a pillow and proceeded to snore.

“Don’t question me in front of my men,” he growled low and quiet into my ear, almost too low to hear over the hum of the airplane’s engine.

“Don’t undermine me because I’m your woman.” I turned to glare at him, our noses inches apart. My finger twitched at the butterfly knife in my jean’s pocket, ready to grab it for an open threat.

Rage. I have to focus on my rage and not how the low rumble of his breath made my skin heat. Or how the hairs on the back of my neck rose each time our breathes were in sync.

His hand moved. I flinched, pulling away as if he’d hurt me. But I knew that wasn’t the reason. I didn’t want him to touch my face because at his touch, I would mold into his palm like a willing supplicant. He stilled, then tenderly stroked a lock of hair from my face.

“At least you admit you’re mine.” With a hard grip on my cheek, he took my mouth. I stifled a moan as I helplessly fell into it. I fucking hated it. I hated how weak I was becoming. He broke the kiss and pushed me away with a hand around my throat. It was possessive and strong all at the same time. “It’s my mission, and I’m in charge of it. My company, my name, my rules.” He stroked my cheek, his green eyes going gentle as he stared at my lips. “And my woman.” He pulled me to his chest and stroked my hair. “Don’t question me in front of others, darling. Or I will punish you for it.”

I shivered at the promise of a punishment. Not from fear, but from a sudden need to provoke. To poke at the bear. He placed his thumb into my mouth, grazing my tongue. He bared his teeth, his eyes darkening as he leaned in.

“I need your trust, Lea,” he whispered against my lips. “Give it to me.”

“Okay,” I sighed against his mouth. “I’ll try.”

He pulled me into him, resting his chin on the top of my head. Then he pulled me down to his lap, so that I used him as a pillow. He took off his blazer and put it over me like a blanket.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “I’m guessing you haven’t had any since the night we had drinks.”

Chapter 3

Callum

Istanbul Airport, Turkey

Blackbalaclavascoveredthelower part of our faces as we stormed down the Istanbul airport in our black suits, body armor and weapons. The heavy weight of armor, ammo and guns, and the sound of nylon scraping together as we moved sent me back to a time long ago when I was still in the SAS. Even the feel of my own breath against my neck, held in by the damn neck gaiter, reminded me of an earlier, less civilized version of myself.

The man who had killed so easily, and enjoyed it. The man recruited by MI-6, colloquially known as the Circus, to be a hired killer. And I had been bloody. When I toyed with my prey, maximizing their pain for my own amusement, I knew I had crossed a line. It was little Chloe Laurent who had pulled me back from the brink, with her talk of humanity, the Hippocratic oath, and all that nonsense.

I had embraced her like a little sister, and was ashamed that hands like mine had touched an angel like her. So I stopped.

I left the circus and started protecting people instead of destroying them. But I couldn’t deny that I still felt the thrill of the hunt.

We marched like we belonged, with loud, synchronized steps - that was the number one rule of spies playing make-believe. Look like you know what you’re doing, and people will jump out of your way.

Leo sat in the middle of a walkway among international terminals, his phone charging on a wall mount. His blonde hair, just a fraction shorter than his sister’s, hung loose over his forehead, obscuring his eyes. His baggy, oversized gray sweater hid what I knew to be a muscular physique, and the floppy, bucket hat further veiled his face.

At the approach of our steps, his head twitched. It was an infinitesimal movement that I would have missed if I wasn’t looking for it. If I wasn’t observing every twitch of his hand, or slight blink of his eye.

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