Page 36

Enimton Gravestone

T he security was laughably simple. After cutting the electricity to the cameras, Enimton bypassed a sensor near the back deck and used a code he’d paid someone to crack for him to open the door.

And yet, as he slipped into Dylan DeVoss’s house, heart hammering and palms annoyingly damp, all he could think was:

I hate this.

The place was quiet—too quiet, like the kind of quiet rich people curated with expensive air purifiers and triple-insulated windows. He moved soundlessly across hardwood floors, black clothes blending into shadows, his dark mask pulled low.

Don’t screw this up , he told himself. Get in, drop the journals, leave. No contact. No witnesses. In. Out.

The duffel bag felt too heavy for what was inside—just journals and the list. No weapons. No threats. No evidence of the dumbest mistake of his life.

Almost killing someone.

Dylan’s accident had been a scare tactic. A timing miscalculation. He hadn’t meant for him to get hurt. And yet there he was, breaking into the guy’s love nest to return stolen documents like some kind of guilt-ridden raccoon.

He paused near the dining room, feeling like something was watching him. Then he spotted it, a rhinestone frog with piercing eyes. He tilted his head at it and stepped closer, momentarily distracted. “What the hell?”

Nothing but a cheap jewelry holder. Not part of the security system. Weird eyes, though. Beside it was a gray stuffed animal. Dylan didn’t have children. Odd.

He almost set the duffel down right there, in front of the stupid frog and a gray stuffed animal that was equally creepy.

Easy to find, but that would be too obvious.

He moved toward the hallway instead, the duffel bouncing on his shoulder. His boots made no sound. His muscles knew the drill. But inside, his thoughts were chaos.

I shouldn’t have hired that guy for the hospital. He’s probably the one talking to the FBI. I could’ve gone myself. I should’ve asked for help. Told my dad...

He flinched at that. No. Telling his father was never the answer. Not unless he wanted to hear again about how the “real” Gravestone heir doesn’t make mistakes. Which was funny, considering Enimton had been trained from birth to clean up every one of them.

He stopped at the bedroom door, not really sure he wanted to see what the lovebirds were into. Maybe I should leave it in the living room.

I shouldn’t have taken them.

I definitely shouldn’t have read them.

Simmons was one sick fuck.

No time to think about that now.

I can’t fix what he did, but I can make sure it doesn’t destroy my family.

Still, something twisted in his chest. Guilt? Probably. Panic? Definitely. Dignity? Already long gone.

He headed back to the living room.

A footstep sounded in the darkness.

Then another.

And suddenly, a piercing voice behind him shrieked, “Don’t move.”

He froze.

Shit.

She was smaller than he was. Half his size, maybe. But the way she held that crystal vase like a club made Enimton hesitate.

He hadn’t wanted any of this, and he didn’t want to hurt her.

But he also didn’t want to get tackled by a woman in leggings with a purple scrunchie and murder in her eyes.

She squared off like she’d already decided to go down swinging. He could respect that. Hell, he admired it, but he had to get out of there without giving his identity away.

He lifted his hands—slow and steady. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her voice shook. “You’re in my house.”

“Well... yeah,” he said, cringing at his own voice. That sounded way too casual.

“I’ve already texted Dylan,” she snapped.

He tensed. “You what?”

“Intruder,” she said. “One word. That’s all it takes.”

Goddamn it.

He should leave. Right now. Just bolt. But the bag was still in his hand, the journals heavy and incriminating. And worse—she’d seen him. Not his face, but he was well above average height and despite his black hoodie, that could be a recognizable characteristic.

Think, idiot. Be scary. Just enough to get out.

He growled—deep from the diaphragm, the kind of thing he’d practiced in combat conditioning.

Her eyes widened. She took a step back. He stepped forward. She raised the vase.

“Put it down,” he said, low and firm.

“No,” she responded, eyes fierce.

Damn. “I don’t want to do this,” he muttered under his breath.

“Do what?!” she barked.

“I mean—like this. Any of this. I don’t—” He reached up to absently run a hand through his hair, but his finger snagged on his mask. As he whipped his hand back, it snapped on his face, blinding him for a second.

She blinked.

He dropped his hand fast. Tried to look menacing. Not embarrassed.

“Listen to me,” he said, voice rougher. “Take this.” He held out the duffle bag.

“No.”

“Please?”

Her eyes rounded. “Absolutely not.”

He lowered it to the ground. “I’ll just leave it here then.” And run.

“You’re not going anywhere. If it’s a bomb or whatever, you’re dying with me.” She inched toward the fireplace, eyes flicking toward a wrought-iron poker.

“It’s not a bomb,” he said quickly. “Jennifer—don’t.”

She froze. Her name had slipped out.

Too late.

He cursed under his breath.

Her gaze narrowed. “You’re here to kill us, aren’t you? Well, I’m not going down easily.”

He stepped back, holding the bag like a shield. “Look, I just—I need to get out of here and leave this bag. That’s all. You’re safe. I swear.”

“Says the man in a mask?”

He dropped the bag to the floor and kicked it toward her. “Give the bag to Dylan. He’ll know what to do with it.”

Oh, boy, she had the poker. And she was coming at him.

Enimton sprinted to the door with Jennifer right behind him, swinging. She got one hit in, mid-back, that would have stopped him in his tracks had he never received a beating before. Still, opening the door gave her an opportunity for a second swing that connected with his head.

A car pulled up right outside. Enimton slammed the door shut and ducked as Dylan’s crazy fiancée took another run at him.

This is going downhill fast. I can’t get caught here.

Jennifer raised the poker again over her head and he caught it just in time to stop it from connecting with his head again. Then Dylan came crashing through the door.