Page 86 of Desperate Games

By the time I wrestle her into pajamas, my nerves are shot—but in the best way.

“I want two stories, my Andy, please!”

I laugh at how she insists I read her two bedtime stories, one about dragons and the other about princesses.

“Do the voices,” she commands, and like any starstruck mama I obey.

Halfway through the second tale, her head drops against my arm, her breathing evening out, lashes fanning across flushed cheeks.

I stay there for a long time, staring at her. My chest aches. My throat burns.

Because I’m not her mom. Not really.

But in this moment, with her soft little hand curled around my pinky just like she does with Remy, I feel like I could be.

I kiss her forehead, whisper goodnight, and tuck her in before slipping out.

The house is quiet now.

I’m exhausted, but happy. And that realization hits hard.

I am happy.

And the strangest thing?

I miss him even more.

Chapter Twenty-Six-Remy

Fuck this assignment.

I don’t give a shit about Greek royalty.

Or about trading favors for Volkov Industries by training this prince’s—yeah, he’s an actual fucking prince, or he would be if Greece hadn’t axed their monarchy—personal security detail.

But the account’s important.

To Sigma. To Volkov Industries. To Connor fucking Callahan.

And I’m too fucking new in the company to tell them all to shove it.

So here I am, drenched in sweat, shirtless, and pissed the fuck off in some ancient courtyard with cracked marble beneath my boots and half a dozen guards circling like vultures.

I just bested their top guy—dropped him clean in hand-to-hand.

And now? The motherfucker is yelling in Greek, claiming I cheated.

I didn’t cheat.

I’m just better. Stronger. Faster.

And he knows it.

He’s raging, spitting words at the translator, and I’m standing here with my fists loose at my sides, barely holding back the urge to show him just how much more I’ve got left in the tank.

But I don’t hear him. Not really.

Because while he’s bitching, I’m checking my phone.