maw of the machine. As she went through the routine task, the sunlight on her face made him want to weep, she was so beautiful.
On some level, he couldn’t believe he’d been with her—and not as in the he-wasn’t-worthy shit. Duh, that was self-evident. But all that pounding, hot-and-heavy sex seemed like a dream. She was all cleaned up, smelling like shampoo instead of his sweat, her hair smooth, her face unflushed.
She took his breath away. To him, she was proof positive that life was worth the sacrifices it demanded of people: Just to look at her and be in the same room, to have the memories he had given not just her, but himself . . .
The idea of anything hurting her, ever, was simply unsupportable. And if he was the cause of it?
Not a threat. Not from a guy like Matthias, who didn’t draw any distinctions that stopped at the feet of the female sex. And he would hurt her in ways that made that special thing Isaac had shared with her down in the cellar impossible for her to enjoy ever again.
As much as it pained him, he had to be realistic: When he was gone, she would find another lover. Maybe one she’d marry and have kids with and grow old beside. And there would be none of that for her at all unless he stuck around, waited it out . . . and prayed that when Matthias’s operative showed up, he was able to kill the fucker and then quickly disappear.
After all, he was a goddamn assassin. It was what he did for a living.
One thing was clear: there was going to be no coming forth with intel anymore. No way. Grier’s life was worth more than her respecting him and whatever was set in motion by her father could be undone fast as a phone call after the dust settled—so as far as they were going to know, it was business as usual until Isaac took off.
And as for his ever after? He was going to turn himself in to Matthias and have his reckoning, but it would be on his terms. Grier’s pops was on to something with those dossiers, and Jim Heron or one of his boys was just the kind of guy who’d keep a first-person, taped narration of every single murder Isaac had ever done locked in a safe —provided Grier and her father died of natural causes.
After all, he was under the impression that death’s door confessions were admissible in court—so as long as Isaac stated that Matthias was going to kill him shortly, he had a whole lot of clout, didn’t he—or at least enough to open one fucker of an investigation.
His testimony would be her and her father’s life insurance policy.
Across the way, Grier hit the
Compelled by something he didn’t question, Isaac stood up and went behind her, putting his chest to her back. Her breath caught as she felt his body, and though she stiffened, she didn’t move away.
He reached up and touched the blond waves that fell around her shoulders, running his fingertips over them. Then he swept them slowly to the side, exposing the nape of her neck.
God, he’d made his mind up, hadn’t he.
He’d chosen his path.
“Can I kiss you,” he said roughly. Because it seemed like the gentlemanly thing to ask first.
Her head dropped. “Please . . .”
He went in for her lovely neck, pressing his lips to her skin. That wasn’t nearly enough, but he didn’t trust himself to go any further or even put his hands on her waist—if he did, he wasn’t letting go until she was under him and he was in her again.
“Grier,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Yes . . .”
“I need to tell you something.”
“What?”
Sometimes emotions were like a locomotive for words: Once they got a reveal rolling, there was no slowing the thing down, no brakes strong enough to grab onto the tracks of your throat.
“I love you,” he said with more breath than syllable.
She heard it, though. Dear God, she heard it, because she inhaled on a hiss.
Grier whipped around so fast, her hair spun out in a halo, and even though his heart was pounding, he didn’t look away.
When her mouth opened, he put his finger to her lips and shook his head. “I just needed you to know. Once. I just needed to say it . . . once. I realize I haven’t known you long enough or well enough, and I’m very aware that I’m not the man for you . . . but some things need to be said.”
What didn’t require airtime was the terror inside his skin.
As much as he wanted to do the right thing, his old boss had him by the short hairs: There was no sacrifice too great to ensure Grier’s safety. Even Isaac’s own salvation. Even Matthias’s downfall.
A throat being cleared discreetly had him looking up. In the glass over the sink, he saw her father standing just inside the kitchen—and out of respect for the man’s daughter, Isaac stepped back.
“Coffee, Father?” Grier said evenly as she leaned to the side and got two mugs from the cupboard.
“Yes, thank you.”
Isaac could feel the guy’s eyes going back and forth, but he sure as hell wasn’t answering any of those questions.
And neither was Grier, evidently. “Are we all set?” she asked.
Instead of replying, the man cleared his throat again. No doubt because he was choking on all the stay- away-fromhims and the don’t-touch-my-daughters.
But he didn’t need to worry. He was too late on the latter, but the former . . . was going to be taken care of.
“Father? Are we all set?”
“Everyone will arrive tomorrow morning—”
“This is a delicate situation. Excuses had to be made—these men and women can’t just duck out for no good reason without questions being raised.”
Isaac could feel Grier staring at him like she was looking for some backup on the hell-no front, but as it was, he disagreed with her. Tomorrow morning was just perfect.
He’d be gone by then.
Out at the Framingham Comfort Inn & Suites, Jim woke up in his dimly lit room and felt like he’d been in a car accident. With a semi. And he hadn’t had his seat belt on.
He was on the bed he’d been sleeping in and curled on his side, his busted-up body having carved out a section of the mattress and settled in like a dog waiting to die in the woods. But he was immortal now . . . and what that apparently meant was no matter how much damage was done, he healed from it.
Yeah, except this was no Samantha-the-witch nose-twitch kind of job, where everything was cleaned up on a oner. He felt very human with the aches and pains, with the inhales that made his ribs burn, with the skips of his heart as it beat the same way a drunk walked. But the worst part of it wasn’t physical. It was in his head.
That he had left Sissy behind in Devina’s realm killed him.
Opening his eyes, he realized it was morning; over the top of Dog’s fuzzy head, the alarm glowed with red numbers. 7:52.
Rise and shine, he thought as he gingerly rolled over onto his back. On the other side of him, Adrian was out like a light, the angel breathing deeply, his eyes jogging behind his closed lids.
Given the glower on his face, he clearly wasn’t having a good time in dreamland.
God, what a night, Jim thought. After Colin had left him, he’d assumed it was just going to be him and Dog. But then someone had come through the other room, and he’d assumed it was Eddie—the nursey-nurse shit was clearly more up his alley.
But no. Adrian had been the one to come in . . . and stay.
At the moment, Jim didn’t have the strength to deal with how any sympathy was going to make him feel, so he carefully pulled a blanket around himself and quietly stood up on legs that were about as strong as pencils.
