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ADRIAN

I recognized obsession when I saw it. I had my own to deal with after all. I also understood how much of a weakness it was. To both of us. Good thing our friend here didn’t know about mine.

I knew all there was to know about his, though.

About how he followed her everywhere she went.

Watched her from a distance—something else we had in common.

How losing everything in a matter of a few weeks meant the only thing he could focus on was her.

Her and the child he thought they were going to have.

The folder in my hand told me otherwise.

I flicked through a few pages before rolling it up and tucking into my jacket pocket.

Memorizing just enough to grab his attention and likely send him spiraling.

Medical jargon I knew he would understand but probably not absorb, seeing as part of him already blamed the girl for his misfortune.

Blamed her for luring him out onto the street and right into our trap.

Even though the poor thing didn’t know that’s what she was doing.

He didn’t know either.

But it didn’t matter. Narcissists didn’t care whose fault it was. Just that it wasn’t their own.

I was curious how he would take the news. One more thing ripped out of his severely-mangled hand. One more disappointment life had dealt him.

There were really only two options. It would either break him or motivate him. And I had a hunch it would be the latter. Suicide was far too self-reflective for a man like Cohen Michaels. But revenge wasn’t. And revenge was an even greater motivator than love. Though one usually fueled the other.

I stared at him from behind the foggy glass of the bar window.

Waiting on the sidewalk with my hands tucked into my pockets and Bugs standing at my back.

Casper was a wild card, one I couldn’t risk with situations as…

delicate as these. Besides, I didn’t think he would be able to contain his excitement after he saw what our little “accident” did to our former target’s face.

What some sloppy surgeons had done to piece it back together not so tactfully.

A waste of skin and tissue. Good thing it wasn’t his looks I was interested in. It was what he could or couldn’t do with his hands. What I could do to fix them and then what he would do to pay me back.

I waited for the girl to leave—Emily Shaw was her name I’d come to learn—and stepped up behind Cohen’s back just as he moved to follow her. Clamping a hand on his shoulder and shoving him down again.

“Dr. Cohen Michaels, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” I grinned.

He didn’t. But that was because he didn’t know about my proposal yet. He would soon. And he would accept it or I would be forced to finish what I started.

Like I said, I didn’t like loose ends. But I sure as hell enjoyed tying them off.

It took longer than I preferred for Dr. Michaels to get onboard with all that Briarwood had to offer.

And not because the shit we did here bothered him.

I saw the way his eyes lit up when they swept over my surgical table.

How feral he looked when the scent of blood penetrated his nostrils.

The fucker came alive with a scalpel in his hand. Even if he struggled to hold it.

No, the problem he had was the fact he wasn’t in control. I was. And I always would be too. My boys would make sure of it.

See, that was the difference between me and Cohen.

He didn’t play well with others. Didn’t know what it was like to think about anyone but himself.

Didn’t know what it was to set your own desires aside in favor of someone else’s.

But I did. Even if it was all in favor of getting what I wanted in the end.

If I were being honest, and I usually was, I’d admit that I saw a part of myself in each of the men I collected over the years.

The good and the bad. The advantageous and the toxic.

It was funny when you recognized yourself in someone else.

It was less funny when that someone irritated the hell out of you.

Casper was playful and indulgent, the way Marisela made me feel during all those months we were sneaking around.

Dr. Michaels—Frankie, as the others liked to call him now—was egotistical, to the point it was to his detriment. A lesson I’d learned the hard way.

Donnie was… broken. Like the boy who grew up in a basement without a name. We had that in common. I just hid it better because my scars weren’t as easy to spot.

And Bugs… he’d sacrificed everything for the person who meant the most to him in the world.

For him, that person was his brother. For me, it was Marisela.

They reminded me of the worst parts of myself.

The parts I hated. And missed.The parts I was smart enough to rise above and the parts I would tuck away until the time was right.

I just had to keep reminding my little lamb I was here, waiting, until that time came. I pulled out my phone, deciding a text was more appropriate than an email right now.

ME:

Did I ever tell you what I noticed about you first?

ME:

It was your hair. Long and dark, flowing down your back. Bouncing when you shoved past me. Some people would think you were stuck-up. Not me. All I could think was how do I get that girl’s attention? How do I make her see me? Do you see me, little lamb? Because I see you.

If I knew Marisela as well as I was certain I did, she would spend the afternoon sawing away at her curls. Short enough that the only thing to bounce would be the ass they no longer brushed against.

It would be just another sign that she was as affected as I was. You didn’t do shit like chopping off your hair out of spite unless you cared. And my guess was she cared more than either of us realized.

It was my guess and my hope.