Page 157 of The Darkest Hour

When I finally pulled back, I rested my forehead against hers, and looked into her eyes.

The future was uncertain, the challenges before us immense, but in that moment, with her in my arms, I felt something I hadn’t dared to feel in a long time—hope.

It was fragile.

Delicate.

Like a small flame in the wind.

But, it was there, burning quietly between us.

And as long as we had each other, I knew that flame would grow, guiding us through other dark hours that lay ahead.

Epilogue

A Sensual Stress Reliever

Paris

Six months later.

Someone is killing top agency heads—the men and women who supervised deadly assassins. But who could be that suicidal to even dare?

I sat in my high-tech living room, surrounded by the cold elegance of my wealth.

The glow from the wall of cameras cast a dim light over the space. It had been three days since the first of those cameras started acting up, flickering in and out as if something—or someone—was playing with them.

I frowned at the wall.

My top security officer assured me it was just a glitch, something they were working on.

But glitches don’t happen in my world, not without a reason.

They better get this fixed by the morning, or I will end their lives.

I didn’t enjoy this sense of unease.

I checked the room.

Two of my bodyguards stood like statues by the expansive windows. Their eyes scanned the cityscape below.

Another two guards positioned themselves by the private elevator door, ready to respond to any threat that should come.

Sighing, I adjusted my wide-rimmed glasses, leaned back into the plush leather of my chair, and focused on the report in my hands.

Who could be doing this?

It was the latest assessment from my personal investigator, detailing the scene at the home of the most recent dead agency head.

The man had been a friend, or as close to a friend as one could be in this line of work.

Xavior didn’t deserve this.

The report was brutal in its clarity.

No sugarcoating.

No euphemisms.

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