Page 93 of Heroes & Hitmen
She curls back into the duvet, eyes fluttering shut, and I let myself watch her for just a second longer. My girl. My fake mate. The realest thing in my life.
Then I toss the covers back and get moving, dressing quickly, strapping a handgun into my waistband, and giving my inner wolf a pep talk on the elevator ride down.
Stay cool. Stay quiet. This doesn’t have to end with blood.
The lobby’sall marble and menace when I step out, a few enforcers and other pack members milling around. Some look my way, others pretend not to. Which is fine. The few guys that were friendly when I first arrived stopped talking to me right after the announcement came out about me and Miley. Guess the other enforcers no longer consider me one of them, but I didn’t come here to make friends anyways.
I spot Elias Burke– the embodiment of smug entitlement– leaning against the security desk across the lobby like he owns the place. He’s dressed like a wannabe mobster in a slick suit, hair shellacked and aviators perched on the bridge of his nose like he’s starring in his own low-budget action movie. He’s a good four inches shorter than me, but puffs up like a rooster in a cockfight when he sees me strolling over.
I come to a stop in front of him, shoving my hands into my pockets. “So, where to?”
He yanks off his sunglasses, giving me a look that would curdle milk. “You’re late.”
I lazily glance down at my watch. “Right on time, actually.”
“You’re late if I say you’re late,” he snaps, giving me a slow once-over like he’s trying to find something to insult. “Do I need to spell out the job for you?”
I flash him a grin. “Please do. I love it when lesser men try to explain things to me.”
His wolf surges to the surface, eyes flashing gold. My own perks up in response, ready to rumble.
“I’ve got a meeting at the docks,” Elias grits out. “High value, potentially high risk. I don’t want surprises.”
“Docks. Got it.”
“You don’t speak. You don’t improvise. You follow my lead.”
“Sure, boss,” I snort, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my tone.
He glares back at me, then turns on his heel like I’m not even worth a reply. “Let’s go,” he snarls, stalking off and expecting me to follow.
I do, because I’m a professional. And because I’m well aware of what’s at stake in this game. I’ll jump through Alpha’s hoops, play nice while I have to, just long enough to get Miley the fuck out of this city. Then all bets are off.
We take Burke’s car–a sleek black Mercedes that smells like money laundering and midlife crisis. I claim shotgun out of principle.
He drives in silence, occasionally muttering under his breath about ‘amateurs’ and ‘loose cannons’, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. I just let him stew, watching the city blur by outside the passenger window.
It’s only when we hit the outer ring of the city that he finally turns to me, jaw clenched so hard he’s at risk of cracking a tooth. “You still playing at fated mates with my girl?” he growls, completely out of nowhere.
My lips twitch. “You meanmygirl?” I ask, slowly turning to glance his way. “Careful, Burke. Your jealousy’s showing.”
He makes a scoffing sound in his throat, rolling his eyes. “Girls like her are a dime a dozen. From what I hear, she’s a nightmare, so maybe I should be thanking you from taking her off my hands.”
My hands curl into fists, but I don’t rise to the bait. I’ve got a lifetime of practice in letting shit roll off my back. I turn to glance out the window again as I calmly say, “She was never yours.”
He grinds his molars, obviously still stewing. “You wouldn’t understand, considering you’re from some hick town in the mountains,” he mutters. “But civilized packs honor their deals.”
“Every pack honors fate,” I fire back, smirking at my reflection in the window.
“Fate,” he spits like it’s a dirty word. He slams on the gas, the engine roaring. “Where’s the proof?”
A smug grin splits my face as I swivel my gaze his way. “She’s upstairs in my bed, sleeping off all the orgasms I gave her last night.”
He flushes red all the way to his ears, but he doesn’t say another word for the rest of the ride.
We make it to the docks without killing each other, but not for lack of trying.
It’s one of those industrial dead zones no one’s bothered to gentrify– just crumbling concrete, rusting cranes, and the faint stink of river rot and diesel. Chain-link fences rattle in the breeze, graffiti bleeds down the side of shipping containers, and the water churns below like something alive and hungry.
