Page 2 of The Hitman's Forbidden Obsession

She stumbles on the words, clearly carrying the guilt of what she’s doing. But she does it anyway.

“And the payment?” I ask.

“I paid the agreed amount to the account you specified.”

I nod. I already knew that, but I wanted her to say it. Confirmation that we’re both on the same page. When I’d given her the number I wanted for the hit during our earlier call, an obscene figure with six zeros, I’d expected her to balk. But she hadn’t. She’d made the payment within the hour. Given the fact she can’t be any older than twenty-five, I imagine she’s using her Daddy’s money to make dirty deals. Or maybe her rich husband’s.

One quick glance at the big diamond on her finger beside a simple gold band tells me it's the poor husband footing the bill.

I don’t really care, though, so long as I get what I’m owed.

I finally open the envelope. Skim the details without really taking any of them in yet. I just make sure I’ve got everything I need. The photo is turned face down, but I don’t touch it.

“I’ll take care of it,” I tell her, my voice firm enough to let her know the conversation is over.

She doesn’t get the hint, though.

“You don’t want to know why?”

I look at her then. Just long enough to let her see that I’m not interested in her story. Her motives. Her drama.

“No,” I say. “That’s none of my business.”

“Fine,” she says, standing. “Just make sure she disappears.”

She’s halfway across the lobby before I let out a slow breath and take another sip of my drink.

The bourbon burns a little less this time.

I stare at the envelope on the table like it’s just another job. Another forgettable set of coordinates in someone else’s vendetta. But something feels different this time. Some instinct I can’t name is clawing at my insides, telling me this is no ordinary job.

I flip the photo over and the world stops.

She’s sitting at a restaurant table, a cake in front of her, one of those sparkler candles frozen mid-glow. Her hands are clutched under her chin, elbows on the table, as she leans forward just slightly, smiling straight into the camera.

No. Not just smiling. She’s beaming. Unfiltered joy radiating off her like sunlight through stained glass.

She’s wearing a floral summer dress. Soft, feminine. The neckline dips just enough to tease the generous swell of her breasts, the fabric stretched lovingly over a body made for sin. My palms itch with a need to touch her. I want to sink my fingers into her soft curves, anchor her to me while I wreck her soft andslow. She’s everything ripe and sensual and holy in one perfect frame.

There’s a touch of makeup on her. Just enough to highlight what’s already devastating. Glossy lips. Long lashes. Those warm, doe-brown eyes filled with a light that should never know darkness.

My hands curl into fists under the table.

Fuck.

It’s not just that she’s beautiful. It’s not just that she’s soft, and curvy, and sweet-looking enough to make a lesser man fall to his knees.

It’s that this picture, this tiny, frozen moment of her birthday, feels like something sacred. A slice of innocence. Joy. Life.

And someone wants to erase it.

To erase her.

The sound I make in my throat isn’t human. I look at her and all I can think is: Mine.

Mine to protect. To worship. To ruin, if she’ll let me.

I want to press my mouth to every inch of her and whisper filth between prayers. I want to wrap my arms around her and never let another soul close. I want her safe, spoiled, sated, and so full of my attention she forgets the world ever tried to take her from it.

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