Page 5 of The Final Contract
I’ve spent too many hours with her—watched every twitch of her mouth, every tightening of her shoulders. I know when she’s telling the truth. And I know when she’s lying through her teeth.
She’s doing it now.
“Stop actin’ like I don’t know ya,” I snarl. My brogue cuts sharper than I want it to, but I don’t reel it back. “I’ve been at your side for a year, Seraphina. I’ve seen you terrified, I’ve seenyou broken, and I’ve seen you fight your way back from hell. And this—” I hold up her dripping hands, “—isn’t nothing.”
Her eyes flash, chin tipping up. Defiance. It’s always defiance with her.
And Christ, it stirs every demon in me.
Lucian and I flew halfway across the world to drag her out of the deranged clutches of a madman.
That bastard’s gone now—ashes in the ground. But I remember the night too clearly. Some wannabe king’s little brother knee-deep in drugs, drowning in debt. And not just any debt. Debt with the Irish.
And an Irish debt is a life debt. No questions. No mercy.
As soon as I heard my old family was involved, I knew what it meant. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot her down on their way to their target.
Collateral damage, they’d have called her.
And I would know better than anyone.
I’ve kept her close ever since. Because I don’t trust the world not to take another bite out of her.
So no, I don’t believe her calm little act. I don’t believe in coincidence. And I sure as hell don’t believe roses dripping red into her hands are just fucking paint.
The fight doesn’t stop when Felix pulls up to her building. It climbs with us in the elevator, follows into her kitchen, spilling over marble countertops and the wreckage of that ruined gown.
The kitchen lights are too bright after the chaos of the ballroom. I strip off my jacket and toss it over the back of a chair, then roll my sleeves to the elbow. The sink hisses as I scrub the red off my hands, water running pink down the drain. Paint, she says. I’m not convinced.
Behind me, the fridge opens. She pulls out a bottle of water, panting faintly as she twists the cap. From the fight? From the panic? From me? I don’t ask.
“You want to tell me the truth now?” I say without turning.
Her silence stretches, then breaks. “I have a stalker.”
I freeze, hands braced on the stainless steel. Slowly, I shut off the tap and turn.
“Do you remember?” she asks, voice softer now. “Years ago. When Lucian tried to find him.”
I remember. How could I not? Back then, I thought it was handled. Dealt with.
“Five years,” I murmur, the pieces slotting into place. “Five fucking years you’ve been looking over your shoulder?”
She shrugs, sipping her water like we’re discussing the weather. “It stopped for a while. He was mostly quiet for a bit. I thought he had moved on and it was not worth making a fuss.”
Not worth making a fuss? A fucking stalker?
She walks away like that settles it. Like we’re finished.
We’re not.
Not even fucking close.
I follow her down the hall—every step of her penthouse already memorized. I know where the floor creaks, which door sticks, how the curtains leak light in the mornings. There’s not an inch of this place I don’t know.
In her bedroom, she sets the bottle aside and unclasps her earrings, placing them neatly on a tray. “You don’t need to get worked up, Killian. It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” I snap, trailing after her.
