Page 2 of Tabitha

Five-thirty a.m., on the dot.

Pierce steps out of his bathroom, a cloud of steam billowing around him, and I barely hold back a growl as he struts out, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.

My reaction has nothing to do with the way my heart shimmies in my chest like a little go-go dancer at seeing all that naked flesh on display—it’s pure annoyance at finally laying eyes on my nemesis.

When he drops the towel and scrubs his hand down his chest, my gaze follows the path helplessly…only to be disappointed when he begins to dress. My chest tightens, and it’s only when my lungs burn that I realize I’ve stopped breathing, and I scowl at the wanker. I would almost suspect that he stripped on purpose to try and distract me, but he couldn’t possibly know I’m watching.

If he’d discovered the hidden cameras I placed, he would’ve disabled them.

I’ve been watching the driver since he was hired eight months ago.

Waiting for him to screw up.

Give away his true purpose.

No way is it a coincidence that an ex-cop took a job in a mansion full of assassins.

Against my will, I scan every inch of his body and shift uncomfortably when heat swirls through my veins. Even though I don’t trust the man, I have to admit that he keeps himself in excellent condition. A scar from an old gunshot wound decorates his right shoulder, and a thick knife scar runs across his left side, slicing down over his abdominal before crossing along his Adonis muscles.

It’s all I can do not to squirm as I note his body.

Er, wait.

That’s not right.

Injuries!

I was scanning him for weaknesses.

I grit my teeth at the outlandish slip and shake my head to clear it.

One last wound twists up the outside of his thigh like he was in some sort of car accident where the vehicle tried to take a bite out of his flesh. When my eyes involuntarily stray again, I yank them away from his still mostly naked form and harden my resolve.

No matter my good intentions, though, I’m unable to shift my gaze completely away.

As much as I hate to admit it, the man is truly magnificent.

If he weren’t a fucking spy, I might actually consider him for the position of my lover.

Except the fucker used to be a cop, a threat to the Belladonnas, and I can’t allow that to stand. I tried to take him out the first month by tampering with the brake lines of his car, a perfectly restored, sleek 1969 Chevy Nova with a cowl induction hood. It was almost a shame to see such a beautiful piece of art come to such an end, but sacrifices had to be made.

The everyday household chemicals easily rusted through his brake lines like I planned, but the man was cagey, somehow managing to drive home without working brakes. Even worse, instead of raising the alarm to Man, the organizer of the Belladonnas, he just calmly went about fixing his car.

I’m still disgusted by my lack of success.

To this day, it’s my one and only failed assassination attempt.

The whole experience was demoralizing.

I’m better than that.

I was in the process of setting up another accident, a foolproof trap this time, when Man caught wind of it and told me to stand down.

Pierce was off-limits, and my request for permission to kill him firmly denied.

Truth be told, I’m still pouting over the decision.

He vetted Pierce, declared him a good man and one of the family now. Then he demanded that Pierce train me three times a week in hand-to-hand combat—my punishment for taking matters into my own hands instead of clearing the operation with him first.

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