Page 48 of The Final Contract
My hand goes straight to the handle of my knife—always my first instinct before the gun.
It’s one of ours. One of the men who’s supposed to be with Seraphina.
“Why the fuck are you out here?” I bark, grabbing him by his collar.
He’s bent, breath ragged. “Neither of you answered your phones.”
My stomach drops. “What happened?”
“Seraphina left?—”
The world stills. “What?”
“With her date. She left in his car. Told us to follow behind. We couldn’t reach you, so the second man’s tailin’ her now. I came to find you.”
Everything in me goes cold. Then hot.
She left. With him.
I bite down on the fury threatening to tear me apart and step in close enough the guard flinches. “You don’t run to me,” I snarl. “You don’t leave her. You stop the fucking car. Throw yourself under it if you have to. Put a bullet in the bastard’sskull if he doesn’t stop driving. He can’t take her anywhere if his brains are on the pavement, can he?”
He goes pale, but I don’t ease up.
We break out of the alley, my phone vibrating as soon as the signal returns. I pull up the Ledger app, her tracker blazing bright.
This isn’t jealousy. It’s not want. Not the ache burning through my veins every time I think about her. This is duty. The job. That’s the story I’ll keep telling myself as I move, tracker searing into my palm like a brand.
Because one way or another, Seraphina’s coming back with me.
And when she does, I’ll make damn sure she understands—bad girls who don’t listen learn fast. The only safe place for her is right where I fucking put her.
Barrett’s penthouse is nice. Cold. The kind of space decorated by some designer his mother probably picked out. Tasteful, elegant… but lacking any trace of him.
I step out onto the wide, curved balcony and let the city greet me. The skyline glitters under the night sky, a million lights battling the glow of the moon. Beautiful. Distant. Untouchable.
My hands glide over the smooth railing. I jut my hip, feeling the cool steel beneath my palms.
Barrett comes up behind me, tall flute of champagne in hand. “For you,” he says.
“Thank you.” I take it, the bubbles crisp against my lips. His body crowds mine—not demanding, but present. His callused hands skim down my arms, and he breathes me in.
He doesn’t push. Doesn’t assume. “I don’t expect anything from tonight except a chance to get to know you,” he murmurs.
“So, get to know me,” I answer, my voice softer than I intend. If only he realized I’m already known—watched, studied, touched by a man who pretends he doesn’t want me.
Barrett shifts my hair over my shoulder, lips pressing warm against the side of my neck. My eyes slip closed. My head tilts back, rests against him.
For a heartbeat, it’s Killian’s mouth I feel. Killian’s rough hands on me.
Barrett’s hands explore—respectful but sensual—sliding over curves like he’s savoring the chance to touch. I pretend it’s Killian. His tall, thick form pressing me forward into the railing. His lips, his heat, his weight.
His hand traces up my bare thigh, sliding beneath the hem of my dress. He exhales when he finds the silk of my panties, when his fingers brush the wetness there.
A groan vibrates against my ear. He thinks it’s for him.
“You feel incredible,” he whispers, mouth trailing fire along my neck.
I moan, low. “Do I?” Not for you. For him.
