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I watched the images onscreen without really seeing them.

My loyalty to Jordan had been a given since the day he wired me five hundred thousand dollars, no questions asked. The money had kept the Brotherhood at bay while I worked out a longer-term solution with them.

However, nothing had truly tested that loyalty until Ayana. The thought of standing next to Jordan at the altar while she walked down the aisle towardhimmade me want to light the entire fucking church on fire.

So the question was, did my loyalty to him outweigh my desire for her?

My head pounded. I still tasted her phantom sweetness. Still felt her soft lips parting eagerly beneath mine.

I reached for another drink and swallowed, but the taste lingered.

Haunting me.

* * *

After three hours of nonsensical action scenes and shooting the shit, I excused myself and walked home from Jordan’s house. It was only a ten-minute walk, and the neighborhood’s layout provided little cover for hitmen. I also wore my standard Kevlar-reinforced clothing and carried a concealed gun and knives.

A small part of me secretly hoped the Brotherhood would try and ambush me. I needed to vent my frustrations. Plus, once they made a move, I could retaliate instead of dealing with this insufferable holding pattern.

I hated waiting, but I couldn’t go on the offensive yet because Roman was tied up on official business (or so he said). I needed his intel and help to launch a proper attack.

Meanwhile, my bugs in Emmanuelle’s office had proved useless. Unless she was talking in code, it was all bullshit about model fees and bookings. I didn’t expect her to discuss too much sensitive information at work, but if I had to listen to one more conversation about florals versus plaids, I was going to cut my ears off.

I’d put a tail on her in case that would be more helpful. So far, nothing.

Long story short: I was dead in the water on all fronts, and it put me in a real bad mood.

I made it halfway home when a scratching noise caught my attention. I tensed and instinctively reached for my gun, my gaze sweeping my surroundings until it landed on the source of the noise.

A tiny, mangy gray cat glared at me from atop the closed lid of a recycling bin. I didn’t see a collar or other signs it belonged to someone, so it was probably a stray.

I relaxed but glared back.

I never understood why people were so infatuated with their pets. I didn’t have anything against them in theory, but I didn’t see the appeal of opening my house up to creatures who were smelly, needy, and almost certain to die before their owner.

That being said, the cat reminded me of Ayana’s kitten mug, only less cute and more feral. It almost made me soften toward the thing.

Thunder rumbled overhead. The cat hissed, seemingly taking great offense at my audacity to walk past its makeshift playground without proper deference.

Any soft feelings I might’ve had vanished. I was close to letting out a snarl when I realized I was arguing with a fuckingcat.

Christ. What was wrong with me today? If the Brotherhood was watching me, they were probably laughing their asses off.

I pulled myself together and walked away, the cat’s suspicious stare burning into my back.

When I reached my house, I went straight to my office, where I tried to get some work done. It was Saturday, but I’d neglected a mountain of official paperwork during the week.

I managed to get through half a dozen documents before lightning streaked outside the window. The rumbles of thunder grew louder and more frequent.

For some reason, my mind flashed to an image of that stupid gray cat huddled under the sparse leaves of a tree. There wasn’t much shelter in the area for stray animals. The little pest was going to get drenched.

Not that I cared. It wasn’t my problem.

I refocused on my computer.

A minute later, the skies opened up. Rain splattered the windows in thick, unforgiving sheets. Another crash of thunder rocked the house, and a needle of unease pierced my skin.

The cat really did bear an uncanny resemblance to Ayana’s mug, and it was both sad and impressive that such a small thing had lasted this long on the streets without protection. Annoying or not, it was a survivor.