Page 16 of The Contract

“You are not heavy,” he growls, irritated, as if the suggestion personally offends him.

To prove his point, his hands shift—gliding along my hips, sliding up my sides in one slow, purposeful drag.

So comforting. So intimate.

Hmm. It’s almost easy to forget this is the same guy who dropped two bodies less than an hour ago.

My lady parts, unfortunately, do not forget. They light up like a jet-engine ignition.

God. Was Kennedy right?

Do I actually have a thing for bad boys and the absolute worst taste in men?

He pauses, scanning the shadows, like he’s checking if we’re being followed.

My body tenses.

His hand brushes down my back. It’s slow and calming. “It’s nothing,” he murmurs, moving on.

“Why are you even carrying me like this?” I snap. “So I don’t see your face?”

“Yes.”

Cue brain. Full. Blown. Overdrive.

My fingers absently trace the sleek edge of his belt. What’s he hiding?

Scars? Tattoos? The face of a man who’s definitely on a watchlist?

I don’t know.

And with his hand resting—way too comfortably—on the small of my back, I want to.

What is this villain’s origin story?

He walks another step.

Then another.

Turns down the next dark alley like he memorized his post-mortem daily commute ages ago—complete with routes to avoid people, CCTV, and apparently, my last shred of hope.

And, of course, still no one.

Hello, Chicago? 9-1-1—ring a bell?

Oh. Right.

In my sister’s mad dash to marry the Lord of Darkness, Kennedy and her overly eccentric husband just had to have a candlelit wedding.

At midnight.

And unlike the nightlife of Milan, Rome, or Naples, where people drink, dance, and chain-smoke until the wee hours of dawn, Chicagoans prefer to sleep through the white noise of active crimes in progress.

It’s just a little ambiance to doze off to. Gunshots, sirens, and me getting carted away like this week’s Costco haul.

I wriggle, trying to get my bearings. But upside-down, shoulder-slung, I’m having a hard time making out anything except this Russian’s impossibly firm ass.

Not exactly ideal conditions.

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