Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121310 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 607(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Now he's disappeared. Permanently. We made sure of it.
And I need to know if anyone's sniffing around to find out why—or worse, looking for his lovely assistant.
My fingers fly over the keys, muscle memory kicking in. I slip past layers of encryption, then ghost into the back end of a chat room that barely exists. And there it is.
A thread.
Not just any thread.
Fuck.
Someone's looking for him.
My stomach tightens, breath catching.
The message is coded, but I know the language.
Where is the Librarian?
My father's old alias.
Shit.
I click on the thread, scrolling past a handful of replies. There's speculation. Some think he's lying low. Others think he's been arrested. One suggests he double-crossed the wrong people and got himself killed.
Ding, ding, ding. Give the man a prize.
But they don't know. Not for sure. Yet.
I recognize most of the dark web usernames and can guess the rest. There are a couple of inquiries from some Mexican and Venezuelan cartels that my father did business with. I'm surprised I don't see the Russians poking around. Kozlov always hated my father. The Turkish and Italian gangs are also nosing around.
I exhale, forcing my shoulders to relax. I'm still in the clear. For now. But this means I need to watch my back more than ever.
Just as I'm about to close out, a private message pops up. My heart stutters. No one should know I'm here.
UNKNOWN: M, is that you?
A slow, creeping dread slides down my spine.
I type nothing. My hands hover over the keyboard.
UNKNOWN: If you're reading this, you're already in trouble.
The bunker suddenly feels smaller. The walls press in, the glow of the monitors casting eerie light over the room, making the shadows stretch long and mean.
My pulse pounds. My stomach churns. My fingers twitch over the keys, then curl into a fist. I don't breathe. I don't blink.
I think about Domhnall. About the life I have here. About his hands on me, grounding me, his voice rumbling against my skin in the dark.
I have something now. Something real. Something I want.
But if this message means what I think it does, if someone has found my scent, I might have to burn it all down.
I might have to run.
And that? That thought is the only thing that truly terrifies me.
ELEVEN
ANNA
They say to leave the past behind, but what do you do when the past is present with you in a way you can't escape?
I stare down at the black leggings and black shirt that Mads barely tried to cover by burying under my other shirts in my laundry bin. The fabric is cool against my fingertips, but my skin burns with the suspicion of where these clothes have been.
The bedroom behind me is still dim, golden morning light barely filtering through the gauzy curtains. The scent of warm skin and faint traces of Domhnall's cologne linger in the air. His side of the bed is empty but still rumpled, the imprint of his body deep in the mattress. My fingers tighten around the fabric of the black shirt in my hands, and my throat constricts with questions I'm afraid to ask.
When I woke up half an hour ago, I immediately noticed my sore nipples and the slight ache between my thighs. Which meant she and Domhnall had started having sex again. Thank god.
That means everything's getting back to normal.
At least that's what I thought before walking into the closet and finding this.
"You could join me in here, you know?" Domhnall calls from the shower, his voice carrying through the steam, husky and inviting.
My heart jolts in automatic response to his voice. Even when I try to keep my feelings measured, Domhnall unravels me with just a few syllables. Before coming back to him, I thought I was the calculated, even-tempered one and she was the overly emotional wreck. Ha.
I glance over my shoulder at the steam billowing from the ensuite bathroom. The sound of water hitting the tile fills the space with its steady rhythm, and through the frosted glass, I can just barely make out his silhouette—broad, strong, safe. My sanctuary and my sanity.
Does he know every time they sleep together, I wake up to the evidence of it still imprinted on my skin? Do I want him to know?
"Maybe next time, love!" I call back, forcing my voice to sound light and composed, though my thoughts are anything but. Usually, I try to linger in the sensation of waking up with my body thoroughly loved, trying to imagine how it felt. As if I can feel his hands like they must have been on me, trailing fire across my skin. Branding me as his.
But right now, all I can do is look back at the laundry basket and shove the dark clothes deeper in the hamper, burying them as if that will fix anything. As if secrets can disappear just by covering them up. I should know better.