Page 9 of Brutal Reign
“Why not? He’s the hottest guy to ever walk into this shithole. This might be your chance to finally get laid. God knows you need to.”
“Please. Men are too complicated. I don’t need that in the age of battery-operated boyfriends.”
I’ve been working my B.O.B. overtime these days, and yeah, it helps, but she’s not wrong about me needing to get laid.
It’s been way too long. A relationship is impossible given the dangers of my life, but there’s no harm in chatting up a handsome stranger. It’s a chance to feel normal again.
I run my hands through my hair, adjusting my top. “I’ll take his order, but that’s all I’m promising.”
Chloe grins and gives me a little push toward the end of the bar where he’s sitting. “We’ll see about that. Go on, make tonight memorable.”
My pulse quickens with each step toward him. When I’m close enough to notice the dusting of stubble along his jaw and the upward curve of his mouth as he smiles, the butterflies in my stomach erupt into a full-on swarm.
CHAPTER
FOUR
PAVEL
The Tube doors hiss open,releasing a gust of damp air into the station. I step out into the human traffic, cap pulled low, just another face in London’s endless crowd.
London has always suited me. I’ve spent enough time here over the years. Russian oligarchs love buying up prime real estate, and where the money goes, organized crime follows. The city has an energy I appreciate—the relentless pace of any major metropolis, tempered by a certain British restraint.
I never expected Hope King to settle in the country she spent most of her life in. It seemed too obvious for someone trying to disappear. But maybe that’s the genius of it. She’s hiding in plain sight, betting that we’d overlook it.
Which we did, for a while.
Finding her took six months. The girl figured out how to disappear. No credit cards, no mobile contracts, no digital footprint of any kind. No social media, no email addresses we could trace. She’s been living completely off the grid, paying for everything in cash, existing in the spaces between official records. The only reason we found her was because a landlordinsisted on a photo ID for her rental. Our system flagged it the moment it hit the online database.
Impressive, for someone who’d never had to fend for herself before.
But I’m not here to admire her survival skills. I’m here to do my job, to ensure that Hope King and any possibility of a Black Company resurrection die.
I’ve been in London for a week, studying her like I would any target. Watching her work, mapping her routines, learning her patterns. Gathering intelligence. I need to know who she’s in contact with, what her plans are, and to shut down anything that could become a threat.
But so far, all I’ve seen is a woman trying to make rent, not someone plotting to rebuild an empire.
The Hope King I’ve been tracking works double shifts at a shitty pub, puts up with drunken assholes, and then hurries home through rough neighborhoods.
There’s something addictive about watching Hope. Watching her survive, watching her adapt to a life that’s so far from her privileged upbringing.
I’ve eliminated dozens of targets over the years, but I’ve never felt compelled to study one like this. Never wanted to understand who they were beneath the surface. Never lost sleep thinking about what made them tick.
Which is why I’m about to step into the pub she works at.
Because something about her has hooked me and won’t let go.
After tonight, once this obsession is out of my system, I’ll do what I came here to do. Easier said than done, but duty is duty, and I’m not the type to leave a job unfinished.
I pull my cap lower as I round the corner to the pub, shielding my face from both the drizzle and any security cameras that might be watching.
I pause for a breath before pushing through the heavy wooden door, rain still clinging to my coat. If I thought there was a chance she’d recognize me, I wouldn’t be here. But since I was wearing a tactical mask and the hallway was dark, I don’t really see it as a risk.
The Lamb and Flag has seen better days. Well, better decades. There’s paint peeling around the windows. The sour tang of old beer mingles with the cigarette smoke that has soaked into every surface. Men crowd around the bar three deep, pints clutched in weathered hands. Their eyes are glued to the flatscreen mounted above, showing tonight’s Premier League game.
A roar erupts from the crowd as one team scores, voices raised in triumph or disappointment depending on which side you support. I move deeper into the pub, mapping exits and cataloging faces. A habit drilled into me years ago.
And then I see her. She’s behind the bar, pulling a pint, her head tilted as she listens to something one of the regulars is saying. Fuck, she’s beautiful. She laughs, and the rich sound cuts through the pub’s chaos.
