licetteer

“You’re gonna be the death of me, Grundy,” he muttered, giving the cat a side-eyed glance. “You and your vet receptionist friend with the killer smile. Funny you’re both redheads.”

Grundy meowed once in reply, nonchalant and unimpressed.

They were in his house.

Touching his woman.

Trying to take her.

They didn’t know what kind of hell they’d just invited in.

She turned to look at him — the hard cut of his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders, the way his eyes never stopped scanning.

He was a machine tonight. Her protector. Her fury and her shield.

Every muscle in his body was coiled, buzzing from what had nearly happened. From what still might.

He hadn’t killed out of necessity tonight.

He’d killed for her.

Because no one fucking touches her.

“Baby, you’re mine. And I’m never letting you go. Not ever. I don’t give a damn what we have to burn down to get it, we will get our peace back.”

She loved this. All of him.

Even the rage that burned on her behalf.

Especially that.

“They don’t know the bigger threat sleeps in your bed now.”

But because Christian knew that when people fought with their emotions instead of their heads, the exit strategy was always the first thing to unravel.

You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to think about her. She is mine. She chose me. And what really cracks me up is you didn’t account for that, did you? Neither of you did. All your guns, your men, your money, your castles of shit—you didn’t consider the possibility that Vera Volkov might fall in love with a man like me. Shame on you for acting on old intel. I’m a deranged hitman, you see? Kind of a big deal in my world.”