Prologue
Evan
I’m cleaning my Glock after tonight’s hit when I see her face on the news.
A full minute passes before I remember to breathe.
Without registering my own movements, I find myself on my knees.
Inches from the screen of the motel room television.
Who…is she?
Her face is exquisite, but God, she’s tired. Her strength is fragile, though very much alive in her big, golden eyes. Beneath her beautiful face are the words “Kidnapping Victim Speaks at Sentencing” and my blood is already beginning to boil as I turn up the volume.
“Miss Dubois, what was it like to come face to face today with the man who kidnapped you?”
The question jars the young woman, but she hides it well, tucking a loose strand of chocolate-brown hair back into her ponytail. “It wasn’t…pleasant. But hopefully, someday, seeing him put away will be part of my closure.”
Her voice sends my blood rushing south, my cock stiffening painfully behind the zipper of my jeans. Soft, husky, resilient, pure, honest. I’ve never been so drawn to a sound in my life. But here I am, pressing my forehead to the screen, my breath fogging up the glass. My hands grope for the sides of the set, all but pulling it off the cheap dresser in a need to be as close to her as possible. Who is this girl? Who tried to hurt her?
I will end their life. I’m a professional, after all. It’s what I do.
And I will do it for her. One glance and already I would do anything for her.
Miss Dubois tries to pass through the throng of reporters, but they pipe up in a grating chorus, daring to block her path. “Miss Dubois! Jolie!”
Jolie.
That’s her name.
Jolie Dubois.
I don’t bother writing it down, because it’s already engraved on my brain.
There are claws in my chest, rearranging organs and making me new. Making me into whatever she needs me to be. I will worship her. I will find this sweet girl and protect her from any harm. She is mine to guard, to keep, to marry. To fuck.
I’ve never had much interest in females. They are merely objects that need to be avoided so I can kill the men I am contracted to execute. They are occasional, faceless tools of comfort. This one is my angel. She was sent for me. My singing blood is telling me so.
On the screen, she draws her bottom lip through her teeth and I come very close to ejaculating in my pants. The pressure behind my fly becomes too intense and I have to unzip, have to stroke myself, standing on shaky legs and showing it to her. Letting her see the last cock she’ll ever have between her legs.
“Jolie,” I choke, dragging the head of my erection over her face.
“What will you do now?” a reporter shouts at my girl. Mine. “How will you move on after such a terrible trauma?”
That question draws Jolie up short, her golden eyes crowding with worry. Thoughtfulness. And God, I am a miscreant. To be able to rifle a hand up and down my dick while she deals with such intrusive questions. While she speaks about this terrible thing that happened to her. But I will atone as soon as the sun rises tomorrow. I will make it up to her. Perhaps the anticipation of giving her real closure, making her happy, is part of the reason I’m so hot. So sick with the need to come.
Finally, she answers the question. “What I hope for is…a quiet, normal life. Blessedly normal. And if I’m lucky, some laughter.” She ducks her head and pushes through the crowd. “Thank you. Excuse me.”
Quiet. Normal.
Can a hit man give her these things?
No.
No, but someone else can.
I will simply have to become someone else.
The news station moves on to another story and I turn, stumbling to the bed and falling face down, fucking my fist like an animal, imagining her big, beautiful eyes flashing up at me. Imagining her sopping wet pussy clenching around my shaft, that sweet voice calling my name.
She’s woken something inside me. An instinct to mate. To claim. And I snarl into the scratchy comforter now, my hips jerking forward and back violently, vowing to find her.
Vowing to stalk her, until I know exactly what will please her.
Vowing to make her my wife.
When I come, it’s a boom of thunder that changes me irrevocably. Into her man. Into her perfect husband. My spend soaks the bedclothes and bubbles over the tight grip of my fist, wringing me out, making me roar, until I’m slumped over, visions of Jolie rotating in my head.
I’m coming for you, angel eyes.
I’ll be there soon.
1
Jolie
One month later
I’m going to go to the block party.
No more hiding in this house.
The neighbors were kind enough to invite me via a note in my mailbox, even though I’ve locked myself away from the world since the trial. A full month of people leaving brownies on my doorstep and checking the locks every hour. But now…
I glance down at the newspaper, the headline still there. I didn’t dream it.
“Kidnapper Murdered in Prison.”
Not just murdered, though. Carved up and hung from his ankles in the recreation yard.
My fear that Joseph Hynes is going to jump out of the shadows has been irrational since they put him behind bars. But now, my fear is even more unfounded. My therapist has been urging me to take small steps to reinsert myself back into society. A block party is a bigger step than I was hoping for. The supermarket might be a better option. But the headline in the newspaper seems like a sign. That it’s time.
After several calming breaths, I pick up my phone and hit the controls to brighten up the entire house. Lights flip on and banish the shadows, illuminating the back hallway leading to my bedroom and I pad in that direction now. My heart pounds wildly in my chest, even though logic tells me no one is hiding around the corner. No one is going to jump out and grab me, drag me to the basement, tie me up.
I shower and do my hair, makeup, for the first time in a month.
My favorite cream-colored slipdress hangs from my frame, due to the weight I’ve lost from being too anxiety-ridden to eat. So I add a belt and a cardigan, buttoning the sweater all the way to my neck to make myself feel more secure.
There’s no telling how long I stand with my hand on the front doorknob, breathing, counting to one hundred and back, attempting to garner the courage to walk outside, but I finally do it, armed with the knowledge—in black and white—that Joseph Hynes is no longer a threat. He is gone. He can’t hurt me. It’s broad daylight and I can hear the neighbors outside, can hear the music playing. This is safe.
I open the door…
And I see him immediately.
A man I don’t recognize, but must be one of the neighbors.
There is a group of men congregating around a barbeque and he stands slightly apart from them, a bottle of beer held at his side between two knuckles.
He’s handsome. In a sharp way. Like he has to concentrate on holding himself still. Dark-haired. Tall, wide-shouldered, muscular, his broad chest contained inside of a simple, blue button-down. Strong. His eyes are focused as they fix on me, widening slightly.
I’m caught off guard when my mouth goes dry.
When my pulse skitters with…interest?