Page 13 of Desperate Games

Shit.

This wasn’t supposed to hurt this much.

But it does.

God, it does.

Chapter Three-Remy

You’d think finding one little Volkov heiress would be easier.

But ever since I got back from the damn wedding, I haven’t had a single fucking second to myself.

Connor Callahan called me into the office the minute I stepped off the jet, like the bastard had been waiting at the door with a leash and a clipboard.

I didn’t even get to grab a drink or a shower before he was throwing out words like strategic lead, global initiative, and new division launch.

Translation?

He wants me to head up a new arm of Sigma International Group, one that uses all the dirty little tricks I spent years perfecting.

Covert ops. Recon. Extraction. Containment.

All the fun shit I’m supposedly too well-bred and too well-paid to be doing anymore.

And greedy, restless bastard that I am, I say yes.

Of course I fucking say yes.

It’s everything I’ve worked for. Power, autonomy, access to the kind of resources I used to only dream about when I was deployed and cold and dying for a mission that made sense.

This should be the best week of my life.

But it’s not.

Because no matter how many contracts I review or operations I green light, there’s one thing I can’t get out of my goddamn head.

Her.

Andrea Ramirez.

The mouthy, curvy little siren who looked at me like I was a snack and rode me like I was a religion.

The way she moaned under me, clung to me, fell apart for me like I was the only man in the universe who’d ever made her feel that way?

That wasn’t pretend.

That wasn’t casual.

I don’t give a damn what she tried to claim the morning after—throwing on her robe, pushing me out the door, brushing off the night like it was nothing, like I was nothing.

She was lying.

To me. To herself.

Hell, maybe to both of us.

But I felt her. Heard her. Held her.