Page 189 of Savage Hearts

He walks over to his desk, flattens his hands on the top, and leans over it, glaring at me.

“You don’t understand. You couldneverwalk away. If she grows warts or has the laugh of a hyena, you’d be tied to her for the rest of your life. If she slept with every bloody man she saw, you’d be tied to her. Forever! Her family would kill you if you tried to leave. And I couldn’t stop it, because you’d have agreed to it beforehand!”

I hold his infuriated gaze and say calmly, “Just show me a bloody picture. If the lass has warts, I won’t mention it again.”

He stares at me for a few moments longer, then curses and drops into his chair. Muttering oaths under his breath, he opens his laptop, clicks around for a while, then sits back and silently stares at the screen.

“So? Warts?”

He looks at me then back at the screen.

“Not exactly.” He turns the laptop so the screen is facing me. I’m looking at a picture of a young woman with long dark hair, dark eyes, and a sweet, heart-shaped face. She looks all of twenty and innocent as a doe.

I say gruffly, “Not exactly is right.”

Declan groans. “Jesus Christ.”

“Set it up.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

“Set it up, boss. Talk to Caruso. See if he’ll bite.”

I turn and walk toward the door, listening to Declan piss and moan behind me, but knowing he’ll consider it once I’m gone.

Kings have to move the pawns at their disposal. It’s just what kings do.

As for the pawns, well, they might not have a king’s power, but they can still make themselves useful.

And, if given the right opportunity, they can have a little fun while they’re at it.

Being the good guy hasn’t gotten me anything so far except heartache.

It’s time to be bad and break something innocent.

BONUS CHAPTER

MAL

She twitches in her sleep like a puppy.

Fierce in reverse proportion to her size, the mouthy little she-devil in my bed is restless, moving her legs under the sheets and rolling her head on the pillow, every so often jerking with a small whine.

I know she’s having a bad dream. Even if I hadn’t studied her sleeping many times before, her distress would be obvious.

That she’s in pain is obvious, too. It’s all over her, in every move and expression. What’s less obvious is why I feel so compelled to ease that pain. Why do I care so much about this demon waif with the big mouth and bad dye job? Why am I having to force myself to stay seated in this chair when every instinct I have is screaming at me to run over to the bed and comfort her?

She did take a bullet for me. There’s that.

Me.The assassin. Friendless dispenser of death.

What she hasn’t done is beg me to release her. She hasn’t cried, either. Mostly, she’s just argued and sassed the fuck out of me.

I don’t understand this woman at all.

She looks as fragile as a bird, but when I broke into the safe house and threatened to snap her neck, instead of begging for her life, she growled like a bear and promised she’d come back as a ghost and haunt me forever.

I hate to admit how endearing that was.