Primal Pursuit

“The last time I saw my brother this set on bloodshed was when his wife’s psychopath father tried to fuck with her.” Nicoli slams back his drink, sucking air through his teeth. “Which is why the fucker is no longer breathing.”

“I’ll get the job done exactly how he wants it.”

I start to get up from my seat, but Nicoli stops me. “Davian? This girl? The one you’re messing with?”

“She’s a rabbit to chase, nothing more. When I’m done, she won’t cause trouble.”

“In all fucking honesty? I’m worried about it coming down on you.”

“Didn’t you know the devil’s a slippery fucking bastard? I’ll be fine.”

Nicoli simply nods, but the way he stares at me says he suspects I’ve bitten off more than I can chew. He’s underestimating my taste for rabbit flesh.

My rabbit.

All. Fucking. Mine.

I spend the day plotting and setting up my moves in the coming weeks. I know I’ll get a call before next week is underway.

Even if everything was straightforward, this is a big operation we’re blowing up. So I study my end, making notes, assessing and listing what I’ll need in Canada and the UK. My specialty tools can easily be taken in viadifferent smuggling modes. But one thing I’m fucking brilliant at is using what I’ve got. It makes me more versatile, a lot more deadly. And harder to track. Some assassins like certain weapons, and I won’t say I don’t have a fondness for certain guns. But give me any weapon, a little time, and I can turn it into the deadliest tool imaginable.

Give me any gun, any knife, any means, and I’ll take a fucker out in the moment. It’s easier for me to work with what they have there. Travel light and fast.

I think about the last two minutes of my conversation with Nicoli. I made it clear Poppy’s nothing more than prey—a plaything with a limit on playtime. But I’m starting to wonder if she’s more than that. One thing’s for sure. She’s a worthy opponent—exciting and dangerous and sweet and smart.

Funny, too.

The sex is beyond anything I’ve had before. Poppy engages me on all levels, and that’s very hard to do. She fits.

“Just a fucking sweet little tasty rabbit,” I mutter. “Get your fucking dick in line.”

Last night, I told her I want to do terrible, delicious things to her. I called her all sorts of names, and she gave back like a fanged bunny. One with a taste for flesh.

She licked and lapped my blood. Instant boner for me, right there.

Shit.

I want another round. I want to tattoo her. I want her so marked as mine she can’t remember anything but me—anything but being called Rabbit. I want to tie her up and chase her down. I want to whip the fucking shit out of her.I want her mouth everywhere. And I want her to sit on my face so I can eat her to her doom.

And if she does smother me?

What a fucking way to go.

I pull out my phone and send a text.

Come sit on my face, rabbit. Your one chance to kill me with that sweet pussy of yours.

She’ll have other chances, but she’s not killing me. At least not that way, but I know she’s angry and confused and probably aching for more, which confuses her.

Coming down from the high after playing as hard as we did last night can be brutal. Especially when she doesn’t let me give her any aftercare.

And maybe it’s wrong, but there’s a very nasty, very perverted part of me that gets off on the fact that she doesn’t.

It makes it more real.

Rabbit doesn’t answer, so I get changed. A sweet-ass three-piece charcoal suit, a snow-white shirt, a black tie, and a poppy-red pocket square. Just for her.

She has two jobs, from the research I did. Some blues club, and a middle-of-the-road restaurant called Supper. The place is trendy enough for a girl to make money, most likely all under the table. Any higher up, and she’d be on the books, something she doesn’t want. Since she doesn’t go by Penelope Jane Parish and she disappeared when sheran from her aunt and uncle, I doubt Poppy Moore’s got a social security number.