“No,” he says firmly. “My idea was that I’d be your handler. Potentially. But they ran with it and decided to do a trial by fire.”
“Handler? What’s that?”
“The person who gives you assignments.”
I think for a moment. “Except for the killing-people part and you being my boss, it does have a certain glamorous appeal.”
Eyes alight, he murmurs, “We’d be like Mr. and Mrs. Smith.”
“You really like that idea, don’t you?”
“Don’t you?”
“What about the yoga studio I’m planning to start? I’d have to change the name to Fit for a Queen—When We’re Not Out Spying.”
“You could still have your studio. Most people who work in spycraft lead completely normal-looking lives on the outside.”
“Spycraft,” I repeat, trying out the word. “Ooh.”
He chuckles. “See? You like the idea, too.”
I quirk my lips. “Let’s table this discussion for after breakfast.”
He smiles like he’s already got it in the bag.
“Changing the subject: how long do you think this truce between you and Kage will last?”
Declan rolls onto his back and tucks me under his arm. I slide my leg over his and wind my foot under his ankle.
“Dunno. I’m still Irish, like his family’s killers. He won’t be able to look past that for long.”
“So you were planning to put him in prison?”
“No, that was the FBI’s plan. He was on my hit list, until you asked me not to hurt him. But now he owes me a favor, the bastard.”
“Is he really that bad?”
He huffs a short, hard breath out his nose.
I take that as a yes. Nat and I are going to have to put our heads together about how to handle the guest list at her wedding. The rehearsal dinner could be a bloodbath.
Which is the last thing the poor girl needs, considering her first fiancé never showed up for theirs.
Declan turns his head and looks at me with a hard glint in his eye. “Speaking of people I should’ve killed when I had the chance, did you see Stavros while you were in New York?”
“I haven’t seen him since you tried to ship me off to him like you were returning a sofa.”
The hard glint fades from his eyes. It’s replaced by a tender shine. “You were so angry with me over that.”
“I still am. You’re not the only one who can hold a grudge.”
He rolls over, pressing me against the mattress, and grasps my jaw. “Any way I can make it up to you?”
His tone is suggestive. His eyes are hot. And that big pistol he’s packing between his legs is nudging my thigh, hoping for playtime.
I press the smile from my lips and answer him somberly. “Yes. Address me as Your Royal Highness from now on.”
Gazing into my eyes, he murmurs, “Anything you want, my queen. Anything and everything, no matter what it is.”
Then he kisses me, and in his lips I taste forever.
Epilogue
Kage
He stalks back and forth in front of me like a man possessed, his eyes wild and his energy thermonuclear.
I’ve never seen him like this. Compared to the rest of my men, Stavros is a mouse.
Then again, love can turn even the sanest man into a raging beast.
I should know.
“How could you let him have her?” he shouts, red-faced. “She’s mine!”
His words echo off the bare cement walls, rising up to the rafters high above and scattering like pigeons startled into flight.
It’s a good thing we’re alone in this warehouse. Otherwise, he’d already be bleeding for disrespecting me like that.
“Take a tone like that with me again, and you’ll regret it.”
He stops short and looks at me, wide-eyed. Wringing his hands, he whispers, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…I just…I can’t live without her. Sloane is my life.”
I have no idea how that woman brainwashes men into falling at her feet like slobbering fools, but it’s a gift, I have to give it to her. If she ever decided to organize her own syndicate, the rest of the bosses would be in dire trouble. A crooked finger from her, and all our soldiers would desert us in ten seconds flat.
“Take a breath, Stavros. Have a seat.” I jerk my chin at a nearby chair.
He collapses into it and props his elbows on his knees. Dropping his head into his hands, he groans. “The Irishman. The Irishman. I hate him so much!”
I say drily, “You’re not alone in that sentiment.”
He lifts his head and looks at me beseechingly. “Why can’t you just kill him?”
“Politics.”
That’s one way to describe it. Another is that my manhood would be chopped off and thrown into a blender by my woman, then fed to stray dogs. But I’m not about to tell him that.
Besides, there are ways around it.
“That’s not to say it won’t happen. Just not at the moment. And it can’t be by me.”
His expression turns hopeful. “So I could do it? I could kill him, and it would be okay?”
The thought of him getting close enough to lay a finger on that wily Irish bastard is laughable, but I don’t want to discourage this kind of enthusiasm.
“Not only would it be okay, I’d give you a year off from tithing.”
Energized, he leaps to his feet.
“But not a word to anyone that you received permission,” I warn, gazing at him steadily, the threat of violence in my eyes. “Disobey me on that, and you’re done.”
He babbles his thanks, rushing over to kiss my hand.
I want to swat him away, but I don’t have the heart to kick him when he’s down.
Falling in love has made me fucking mushy.
We exchange a few more words, then he leaves, looking like he’s floating on cloud nine. Had I known he’d be so eager to shed Irish blood, I would’ve had assignments for him far sooner.
When he’s gone, I lock all the doors and turn off all the lights. Then I head to the back of the warehouse to the hidden stairway.
A button recessed in the floor operates a swinging door disguised as a section of brick wall. The door swings slowly open on silent hinges, revealing inky blackness beyond. I walk forward a few steps, feeling around on the wall for the button to close the door.
I hit it. The door swings shut behind me. I’m plunged into darkness.
I hit another switch, and a bare bulb dangling from the ceiling illuminates the staircase landing. I’m surrounded by unpainted drywall on three sides. The fourth side is open, with a pine staircase descending into more darkness.
I trudge down the stairs, flick on the light at the lower landing, and head over to the metal cage.
It’s not big, but it is strong, made of reinforced steel bars sunk into concrete top and bottom. Inside the cage is a toilet. On the floor sits a plastic gallon jug of water and an empty plate. On the thin mattress, a man lies on his back.
He turns his head toward me, squinting against the light. He’s a young Latino male, just shy of thirty, whom the rest of the world thinks is dead.
He might as well be.