Page 17 of Trigger Happy Ending

“Whatever, asshole.”

He straightens and gathers up his jacket, turning to leave.

Keeping my hands braced on the railing, my body anchored forward, I twist just enough at the waist to glance back at him.

“Soren?”

He stops and glares at me. “What?”

I wait until the bikes race past us one last time.

“You owe me five grand.”

He spits on the ground before stalking off in a huff.

I chuckle, liking that I’ve gotten under his skin so easily. It’s petty. It’s stupid. But this isn’t about the money. It’s about dominance.

And who has the power.

Chapter 7

Raine

Tonight’s conditions are perfect for murder. Minimal moonshine means minimal light. The canopy above traps out the sliver of light from the crescent moon, helping us melt into the dark. Leaves crunch softly beneath my boots, the sound swallowed by the night. Soren moves beside me, silently. Lukas’s cabin is ahead, wood and glass barely visible through the trees. My braid is tight, my pistol strapped to my ankle, knives sheathed in easy reach. Soren’s just as armed, his jacket hiding his firearms and blades.

I should be thinking about the mission. About the target waiting inside.

But all I can feel is Soren. His presence, as silent as it is, is deafeningly loud.

A man made for war.

A man built from it.

We stop thirty meters from the cabin and crouch low. There’s complete silence, absolute stillness. Not even the hum of insects. A sure sign there are predators in the midst.

Soren pulls his ski mask from his face, as do I. “Ready?”

My hushed reply is cut off by headlights, slicing through the trees.

Shit. They’re back early.

Before I can react, Soren grabs my waist and hauls me up and back against the rough bark of a pine. His body locks me in place, solid and warm through the layers of leather. The beams graze past us, and my breath catches. His thumbs move once, a small, firm drag along my waistline, like he’s telling me to stay still.

I don’t like it (I think I love it?), but I don’t hate it either.

The engine cuts and doors slam.

I’ll unpack the thumb thing later.

Two broad silhouettes head towards the cabin, voices hushed, discussing something meaningless. Soren surveys Lukas’s jackass guys before our eyes meet, and in the space of a glance, the decision is made.

Shit is about to go down.

The realization surprises me. Not that one murder is about to become three. Collateral damage is a given in our line of profession, wrong place, wrong time, and all that jazz.

No, it’s not that.

It’s the fact that Soren and I can seemingly communicate with a single glance. It’s like we know—like know, know—what each other needs to do.