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Chapter One

Finn

I don’t know where the fuck I am, and I haven’t had a clue for days. Whenever I ask the doctor, who comes around to check on my bullet wounds, he says he’s not paid to answer my questions. He has a Russian accent, which could be a disaster. If the Volkovs busted my ass out of the warehouse being raided by the FBI, I’m in trouble.

Nothing about this place reminds me of a hospital. My room is a sparsely decorated bedroom in an expensive house. The décor is neutral browns and yellows. High-end. No stench of antiseptic.

Indebted to the Volkovs, who dropped me in this steaming heap of shit with Kimi the undercover FBI agent, and Lorcan, my little brother, is one of the worst things I can imagine. Hagen, the oldest son, is a braggart. I should have known he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut about my father’s murder when Kimi showed up in her spandex and leather jacket. Who needs a stick when the carrot looks like that?

The last thing I remember is shooting Kimi in the warehouse after figuring out she was an undercover agent. Lorcan sank a couple bullets in me in retaliation. He thinks he’s in love with her. I can’t believe he picked a piece of ass over his own brother.

My sheets fall out of the way, and I run my palm along my bandages. More like four of Lorcan’s bullets. The doc said whoever shot me had terrible aim, but I’ve been to the shooting range with him. He didn’t miss my vital organs by accident.

There’s a quick rap of knuckles on my half-open door, and a woman strolls in dressed in light-blue scrubs. I’m guessing she’s some kind of nurse, but it’s the first time I’ve seen her. She’s little and blond and walks with a brisk purpose that’s bringing part of my body back to life. If I convince her to braid her hair, she’d do in a pinch.

I angle my chin at her. “You here to look after me?”

With a sidelong glance, she examines the machines and adjusts my covers. The ring on her left hand catches the light, and I suppress a smile.

“Checking in on you.” She opens the curtains.

“You want to come back later and we can get to know each other? Talk about the weather, local sightseeing tours, your favorite restaurant…”

She flashes her ring finger at me. “No, I don’t suppose I want any of that.”

There’s a hint of an accent, but it’s not Russian. What is it?

“Just an engagement ring.”

With a glower, she twists the ring on her finger. “What’s your point?”

“You’re not married yet. There’s still time for you to do better.”

“I was warned about you.”

I put a hand over my heart and give her my best wounded expression. “Warned about me? Now who would warn you about me?”

Her eyes light up with mischief as she backs toward the door. “You’re all set here. Use the buzzer beside your bed if anything comes up.”

Christ, all I need is a name or a clue where this place is located. Sun streams in from the window, but the view outside is so generic I can’t tell if I’m in America or another foreign land. I should have paid more attention in science or geography class. I might be able to identify a tree or two and have a fucking idea of where I’ve landed. Fat lot of good my almost English degree does me now. Memorizing Shakespearean quotes was a waste of mental space.

On the bedside table is last month’s MMA magazine, and I pick it up and riffle through. Wherever I am and whoever orchestrated this, they know me. From the hot blond nurse to the MMA magazine to the sheet quality…

Hot nurse.

I grab the buzzer and hold it down. She pops her head in the door.

“Yes?”

Might as well ask. “Where am I?”

She worries her bottom lip, indecision crossing her features. “In a private home of a sort.”

I frown, scanning the room. No photos. No paintings. No personalization.

“Whose home?”

She wags a finger at me. “No, no. That’s all you’re getting. My employer will be here soon. I’ve been instructed to leave you in the dark so you’ll behave.”

“I’m probably the best patient in this place. No trouble.”

“You don’t have much competition, so I suppose you’re right.” She leans against the doorway, crossing her arms. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I’ve been told that more than once in my life.” Lifting the top sheet, I readjust the covers on my lap. “I’m bored out of my skull.”

“This is the first day you haven’t been on heavy painkillers, so I can see why you might be restless.”

I narrow my eyes. “I woulda remembered seeing you one of the other days.”

She taps the side of her head. “Your brain is fried. Also you had previous injuries that weren’t healed. They added to the complications of being shot half a dozen times.” She hesitates. “And I only came into your room when you were knocked out cold.” A smile touches her lips. “I heard you raving at the doctor about…well, everything. Wasn’t too keen on getting in on that.”

“Raving.” I scoff, crossing my arms. “I was asking questions.”

“You were demanding answers.”

I stare at her, and she slides out the doorway. I open my mouth to summon her back and realize I don’t know her name. “Hey—what do I call you?”

She laughs and reappears in the entry, shaking her head. “Eve.”

She glances over her shoulder, and with a frown, she disappears again.

“Eve!” A second surge of annoyance rushes through me at my helplessness. Earlier I tried to get out of bed and almost fell on my face. I snatch up the buzzer and press on it again. I’m not fucking amusing myself. No TV and one magazine will not cut through my boredom. I keep my thumb on the buzzer as I twist to grab the MMA magazine with my free hand. My stitches stretch with me, and I wince. Movement registers out of the corner of my eye, and I look up.

“You’re awake,” she says, her voice soft, familiar.

I release the buzzer, and the magazine slides off my lap, onto the floor, hitting the carpet with a thud. At least ten different emotions war for dominance. My heart squeezes in my chest, and my cock twitches under the covers, which occupies most of my brain. Like always, the sight of her is painful.

“It was you?” I shouldn’t be surprised.

Why hadn’t I considered her? She’s a meddler. A fixer.

She tucks a phantom piece of blond hair into her fancy braid. Her nervous habit, and the realization she still does it, makes my heart kick. My fingers throb at the memory of being buried in her hair. There are a few things I’d love buried in her right now. Her short skirt, tight white T-shirt, and the navy blazer take me back seventeen years.

Seventeen years. Christ, I’m fucking old. She’s five years older than me and looks like she’s straddling thirty. How is that possible? She’s forty-five.

“Surprised?” She shoves her bulky purse higher onto her shoulder but doesn’t leave the doorway.

“Yeah, considering I told you to stay the hell away.”

I’m pissed off and grateful at the same time. She saved my life… again. Her caught up in my messy business is what I don’t want, have never wanted.

Carys straightens, and her heels are muted by the carpeted floor as she ambles toward my bed. “I should have let you die?”

“You shoulda stayed out of it.”

“Maybe I could have if you hadn’t called me when you were dying in a field. Maybe if you hadn’t told me you suspected the FBI was involved.” Her amber eyes are thoughtful as she searches my face. “Maybe if I could stop giving a shit whether you’re still somewhere out in the world, alive.”

“A few months ago, when we had sex in Boston, we agreed I was… How’d you phrase it?” Not that I’d forget. “Paying my debt because you saved my life seventeen years ago.” I raise my eyebrows.

The memory is scorched into my synapsis. Carys teetering off the chair in the kitchen, drunk, me catching her, swinging her up into my arms. Her lips pressed against my neck and then she murmured in my ear, You’re alive because of me. How will you pay me back? Over and over again that night, I gave her my payment, and she screamed my name in thanks.

Her pale-pink lips twist, and she crosses her arms. Her eyes narrow and then dance with mischief.

“Hmmm… Is that how that night went?”

She’s close enough to the bed that if my wounds were healed a touch more, I’d snatch her, yank her onto my lap. Her laughter would echo through the room like it used to years ago. Amused, aroused. But she’s just out of reach, and when I shift too quickly my stitches strain at the seams.

“Happy to pay you back for this one too,” I say.

Her lips rise in a rueful smile, and she eases away from the bed, more distance between us.

“You overpaid last time.”

“Makes me feel like you’re undervaluing my life.” I stare, willing her to come closer.

She avoids eye contact and recrosses her arms. “Who shot you?”

“My deartháir beag .” I run a frustrated hand through my hair and wince. Everything hurts. “I honestly can’t fucking believe it.”

“Need more painkillers?”

I give a half smile. “I got other things in mind to dull my pain.”

Something buzzes in her bag, and she slides one strap off her arm, rummaging around until she finds it. She bites her lip, and her brow creases. “I have to take this. I’ll come back to check on you later.” Carys heads for the door, her phone pressed to her ear before I can protest.

When she’s gone, my chest strains with an ache the painkillers can’t dull. The pain might be my stitches, or it just might be my traitorous heart.