Page 17 of The Final Contract
He cuts me a look, cold steel. “Stay here. Don’t open the door—I don’t give a fuck who it is. You do nothing. You say nothing.”
I bristle. “I’m not some?—”
“Try me,” he growls, low and lethal. “I’ll lock you in a closet if I have to.”
My mouth opens, shuts. He’s not bluffing.
Then he’s moving, gun raised, steps precise, body coiled like a predator. He sweeps the space in slow arcs, eyes never still, muscles taut beneath his dark shirt.
And God help me, I can’t stop watching.
The way he moves—controlled, lethal, like the entire room bends to him. He disappears around a corner, and suddenly I feel exposed without him in sight.
I wait. Listen.
The silence stretches, broken only by the faint hum of the city beyond the glass. My pulse thuds against my ribs.
I wait some more.
Then—restless—I edge a foot forward, careful to make no sound. Then another. Like sneaking in the house after curfew, praying the floorboards won’t give me away.
Three hard bangs rattle the door behind me.
I yelp, jumping nearly out of my skin—just as Killian rounds the corner, gun going back into his holster, eyes blazing, and sees me exactly where I swore I wouldn’t be.
“Christ, woman,” he snaps, fury crackling off him. “Do you ever listen?”
Three bangs again, controlled this time, and he steps past me to unlock the door. “That’ll be Finn.” The Irish coming out a touch in his words.
He swings it open to reveal his second-in-command. Broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, slight gray at the temples of his near-black hair and already carrying gear.
Killian jerks his chin. “Inside.”
Finn nods once, calm but quick, moving past him into the penthouse while Killian’s attention cuts back to me, hard enough to pin me against the wall.
Killian shuts the door behind Finn and turns on me, voice low and clipped. “Who has access to your penthouse?”
I blink at him. “You know this already.”
His jaw tightens. “Humor me.”
I exhale. “Only you, the building attendants, and my cleaning lady.”
“Yeah,” he mutters, sharp as broken glass. “Fucking dozens of people.”
I step closer to the counter, eyes narrowing on the rose. Up close, I see the red tips are dry now, curled slightly at the corners from the paint. It’s resting on top of a small stack of envelopes.
“One of the stewards must’ve brought it up with my mail,” I say. “It had to have been in my box.”
Killian doesn’t waste a second. His hand taps his earpiece. “I want the name of whoever delivered the mail to the penthouse today. Now. And get me the security footage of the mailroom—every angle. We’re looking for someone delivering a white flower to her mailbox.”
While he barks orders, I’m already moving, thumbing open the app for my own cameras stationed around the penthouse interior. I scroll back through the notifications until I find the right timestamp. “Here.” I tilt the screen toward him. The feed shows the steward walking in with the mail, setting it on the counter, and leaving again through the service elevator.
Nothing unusual.
“It’s just the steward,” I say, giving him the name.
He takes the phone from me without asking, flicking through, sending the clip to himself. Before I can protest, a sharp ping breaks the silence. A new text.
