Page 30

T he whole morning was spent chasing shadows, trying to get a goddamn line on the ghosts who robbed my father-in-law’s office.

I went through the security feeds frame by frame, analyzing every second of footage.

I questioned the man Angel Fury personally put in charge of security at the Vipers’ Den, looking for any cracks, any hesitation in his story that might suggest an inside job.

Nothing.

No subterfuge.

No trace of a lie.

Whoever these fuckers were, they didn’t just walk in the back door. They knew the shift change schedule. Knew exactly when to slip inside without triggering an alarm. They had the layout memorized.

This wasn’t just some smash-and-grab job.

And yet, from what I’ve been able to gather, the stolen drive wasn’t even valuable. Just old data. Files on accounts that are no longer relevant to Viper Enterprises’ current business.

It doesn’t make sense.

None of it does.

Which is why I can’t shake the feeling that the whole damn job wasn’t about the files at all.

That it was about sending a message.

About provoking Angel’s wrath.

And if that was the goal, then these idiots just signed their own death warrants.

Because if there’s one universal truth about the Vipers, it’s that you don’t fuck with them.

Because if you do?

You get bit.

And no one survives a Viper’s bite.

My stomach growls, low and sharp, and I check my watch.

Almost five.

Fuck.

I missed lunch.

More than that, though—I miss her.

My Aella.

I grab my shit and head for the elevator, already reaching for my phone.

Me

You ready to go home, Pixie?

Her reply comes instantly.

Pixie

Yes, Sammy. I’m shutting down my desktop now.

I exhale, tension bleeding from my body. Just knowing she’s there, waiting for me, is enough to settle the restless beast in my chest.

Damn, I love this woman.

I fire off another text.

Me

Wait for me. I’m on my way.

I flick my gaze up just as Santos steps into my path, his usual blank expression in place.

I hadn’t expected him to be here. But I don’t show my surprise.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing, boss.” His answer is too quick. “Finished my rounds. Put Bodie in charge at the house. Figured I’d wait for you here.”

I narrow my eyes.

Santos isn’t a man of small talk. If he’s here, there’s a reason.

But I don’t have the patience to drag it out of him right now.

I make a noncommittal sound, slipping my phone into my pocket as I take a step past him.

“Wait for us by the car.”

He holds my stare a beat longer than necessary. Then he dips his chin and turns, making his way toward the back elevator.

I don’t dwell on whatever’s eating at Santos. We all have our ghosts.

Right now, I’m focused on one thing and one thing only.

Getting to my wife.

I crave her.

The sound of her voice, the feel of her in my arms, the way her scent wraps around me and settles something wild inside me.

Today was a hard fucking day.

I don’t like mysteries. Don’t like threats lurking in the dark, waiting to strike.

And I sure as hell don’t like anyone messing with what’s mine.

Because whatever the hell this was— whatever game someone thinks they’re playing with the Vipers —it’s personal to me now.

Angel Fury might hate my fucking guts.

But I love his daughter.

And that means his war is my war.

Because any threat to him is a threat to her.

And that makes it a threat to me.

These faceless, nameless assholes? The ones working for whatever son of a bitch set this in motion?

They don’t even realize the level of hell they just signed up for.

They don’t know what I am, what I’m capable of.

But they’re about to find out. Because I will hunt them down.

And when I do? I will put them in the ground.

Right now I need to push those thoughts away, and I do.

I dip my chin at Mrs. Marsden, Aella’s assistant. She gives a small nod in return, her face neutral, but I catch the flicker of amusement in her eyes.

She’s been working for the Volkov family for a long time. She’s seen her fair share of powerful men and their obsessions.

She knows exactly what Aella is to me.

My breath is slow, measured, as I step inside her office.

My wife’s office.

And then I see her.

She’s focused, staring at her monitor, delicate fingers flying over the keyboard as she types in her final command. The glow from the screen highlights the slope of her nose, the fullness of her lips, the soft shadows beneath her lashes.

She’s stunning in every damn way.

Then she looks up.

And smiles.

Like the sun breaking through storm clouds.

Like a goddamn miracle.

That single expression? It wipes away every frustration, every scrap of tension that’s been gripping me all day.

It’s like she sees me— really sees me. And she likes what she sees.

Imagine that? This sweet innocent looks at me like I hang the moon. And I like it. A lot.

“Hi,” she says, her voice sweet, soft— but it sends a shockwave through me.

I don't respond.

I can’t respond.

Instead, I do what my body demands.

I move.

Crossing the room in two steps, I cup her face, fingers sinking into the silk of her hair, and pull her up from her chair, bringing her mouth to mine.

She gasps, a soft, surprised sound that makes me groan into the kiss. I drink her in. Her taste. Her warmth.

My chest rumbles, settling in a way I didn’t even realize it needed to.

I was starving for this.

For her.

When I finally lift my head, she’s breathless, her lips parted, her eyes heavy-lidded. She sways slightly, like I’ve stolen all the air from her lungs.

I brush my thumb along her cheek, branding her with my touch.

“Ready, Pixie?”

She nods, pressing her lips together like she’s savoring the taste I left behind.

And fuck—I am desperately hard for her.

“Let’s go home.”