Page 16 of The Final Contract
It doesn’t matter. It can’t.
Because I know it’s time. I can’t let a phantom dictate the rest of my life. Can’t let fear keep me pacing the same cage while the world moves on without me. If anything, maybe this will draw him out. Maybe this is what finally forces him into the open where Killian can do his job.
A shiver snakes down my spine as I think about the opera gala—the most direct interaction I’ve ever had with him.
Why now? Why make himself known in such a public way?
Is it an anniversary to him? Some twisted moment in his mind that tied me to him forever? Or is it a warning—that he’s coming to claim me at last?
I don’t know. And maybe I never will.
But I know this: I’m done waiting.
I won’t sit still in the dark, wondering when the knife will fall.
It’s time to live.
Eve flips to the next file, her eyes lighting up as she scans the page. “Ohhh. Now here’s a contender. Six foot five, former football star. Apparently, he’s working sponsorships like a stripper pole and investing every dime. Net worth’s climbing so fast it might break orbit.” She fans herself with the folder, grinning. “And look at those shoulders. You could build a house on them.”
I lean over to glance at the photo. Handsome, big, polished smile. A little too polished, maybe, but he checks enough boxes. “Okay,” I say, sliding him into the pile.
Across the room, Killian exhales. No—sighs. Like his entire life depends on it.
Eve cuts him an amused look, lips twitching. “How tall are you, Irish? Six three?”
His glare flicks her way. “Six six.”
“Mhm.” She smirks, clearly getting to him. “That with or without your platform boots there?”
He pushes off the wall, arms folding across his chest. “How much longer is this going to take? I’ve got new security coming to her penthouse for a walkthrough and instructions.”
“It’ll be hours yet,” I answer, deliberately breezy.
Eve waves a dismissive hand. “Doesn’t have to be. I can draft a profile based on the ones we’ve flagged already and filter the rest out from there. Save you both some time. I’ll send the final list to your cell.”
“Perfect,” I say, turning to her. “Go ahead and get started scheduling dates with the ones that make it through.”
There’s a beat of silence.
From Killian’s corner, I catch the low rumble of his voice—so soft it almost blends into the hum of the air system. But I swear I catch the words.
So eager.
Heat flares under my skin, and I pretend I didn’t hear it.
The lights flick on as soon as we step inside my penthouse, the glow spreading across sleek marble floors and glass walls. Killian’s voice is steady, all business. “The new guards will be up in a few minutes to?—”
I stop dead.
He notices immediately, his head snapping toward me, then following my gaze to the counter.
A white rose with blood-red tips lies there. Perfect. Waiting.
Killian’s gun is in his hand before I even breathe. He moves in front of me, solid, unyielding, his other hand clamping around my arm to pull me behind his body. My fingers instinctively curl into the thick muscle of his bicep, holding on as he backs us both up.
He maneuvers me into the corner of the entryway, then releases me, already tapping the comm in his ear. “Finn—get up here now. Urgent. Bring the sweep kit. Everyone else stays in the lobby, lock the exits. Nobody in or out.” His voice is sharp, practiced, the tone of a man who’s done this before. Too many times.
“I’m sure this is not necessary,” I whisper, but it sounds weak even to my own ears.
