Page 43 of The FBI Agents Who Stole Me

Pain catches beneath my ribs, tangled with a burst of gratitude I do not want to feel.

“I chose you the second you smiled at me in that parking lot, babydoll. And I’m not going anywhere no matter what’s on that drive or what you do for Emily.”

I take the drive from his fingers. Our skin touches, and it’s electric like it always is. I can’t help but throw my arms around him once more.

“Thank you,” I whisper into his neck.

“Don’t thank me yet.” His voice is low, and he kisses the top of my head. “We haven’t seen what’s on it.”

I nod. “I’m still going to kill the fucker for ratting me out. A flash drive with some files isn’t enough for my forgiveness.”

“I’m not sure why I’m saying this in his defense.” He exhales. “But I think you need to hear him out before you kill him.”

My lips press together in a thin line.

“Eventually, we need to talk about Elliot.”

Jealousy flashes hot in his blue eyes, and his jaw locks.

“Eventually.”

Julian deposits both mugs in the sink and turns toward the hallway.

“Come on, Ettie, I know you’re dying to see the drive. I have a computer in here that’s made of your wet dreams, Elliot’s words, not mine.”

He looks over his shoulder and smiles at me. And suddenly the world doesn’t feel like it’s against me.

Julian Jameson knows all the parts of me, even the worst ones, and he still reaches back for my hand. He still loves me anyways.

CHAPTER 12

Lee

3 MONTHS AGO

I thought I had a lead. Instead, all I found were two dead college kids and four bags of Vinculum.

It’s all connected somehow. Someone has to be able to tell me what happened to her that night.

Rage fills my broken heart, and I pull into the parking lot.

I grab my guns and bullets and the rest of my range gear. I'm pissed I can’t put one in someone’s head.

In my sensible heels and skirt, I storm up to the range.

Bill sits at the entrance and gives me a wave. I ignore him. I'm not in the mood for anything other than murder.

My heels click down the hallway, and I find my favorite stall. No one is here this late, thank the gods.

I slam my bag onto the counter, the metal clanging giving me a small sort of satisfaction. Pulling ear protection on, I shove my safety glasses into place. My hands shake with the kind of rage that only steel and gunpowder soothe. The skirt rides high on my thighs as I spread my stance in these stupid shoes. I load the magazine with sharp, angry clicks, rack the slide, and send the target sailing downrange.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Each pull of the trigger punches through the silence.

Goddamn dead end again.

I’m breathing through my teeth when I feel a prickle on the back of my neck.