Page 11 of Unravelling The Hitman: A BWWM Romance

As if the audience couldn’t tell already.

I never thought something like that could happen to me, but the moment Boss walked into the room, something in my brain jerked out of place. My heart smacked against my ribcage like a possessed doll, aching to get out. Aching to be near him.

Yearning.

What I felt made little sense and yet was too strong to ignore.

He’d looked me up and down with eyes that were hard as granite set in a face that was built for billboards and close-ups in magazines. Square jaw. Pointed cheekbones. Short haircut.

He carried himself with a ruthless bearing, turning his simple grey Henley, jeans, and sneakers into army fatigues.

Boss.

It was what Rasheed called him.

I didn’t know his name, but then… I didn’t need to.

Boss.

It suited him.

Leader. Big Gun. Head Honcho. He could command a thousand armies with just a flash of those dark green eyes.

Boss was… intense. Unlike any man I’d come across. Which was why, when he gave me a command, I listened before any thought or reason could rush through my fuddled brain.

‘Stop’. It was all he’d said and yet every blood vessel, every pump of my lungs, wanted to obey.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe.

I was scared. Angry. Affronted.

And also… confused.

Who was this man? Why did my body obey him?

As Rasheed explained Reid’s rescue, Boss’s eyes flicked to me. They turned stormy. Thin, pink lips tightened, disappearing. Then they returned, arching into a curve of a smile when his anger gave way to admiration.

My stomach tightened. I had to save myself, had to turn away.

So I looked at Reid. Adorable, safe Baby Reid.

The kid clung to his father. Tiny arms wrapped around his neck. He seemed content, clueless even. Nothing that had happened or would happen bothered him. How could it? When he had a father like Boss?

What is wrong with you, Angel?

Maybe I was suffering from heat stroke.

Maybe I’d smashed my head a little too hard against the sand earlier.

I glanced down, searching for injuries. A hiss flew past my lips when I actually found one.

A long scrape.

It charged up my inner thigh like a twisted arrow. Blood oozed from the deeper imprints.

The sound of my surprise and pain rattled against the walls and brought Boss’s attention to my cut. His thick eyebrows crashed down. A slow, tantalizing appraisal of my body ensued.

I became distinctly aware of the cleavage exposed in the black, one-piece suit. My injured leg slipped behind the other.

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