Page 19 of Trigger Happy Ending

“I prefer the term ‘lifesaver,’ asshole,” I declare, defenses up. I holster my weapon with a shrug. “I saved your life in case you didn’t notice. Lukas was about to shoot you point-blank.”

Soren stares at me. If looks could kill, I’d be six feet under, and he’d be bleeding on my grave. His grip on his wound tightens.

“You’ll live,” I add. That’s about as much sympathy as I can offer. “It’s a clean shot. A rib tickle. I’m sure you’ve had worse.”

Nostrils flaring, he asks, “How the fuck would you know?”

“I read your file.” Lie. Big, huge, fat lie. But a gamble I’m willing to take. And a right one by the sound of his silence. I pull out my phone to text the Cleaner the coordinates, followed by a quick message to Agent O. Bitch boy needs medical attention.

Phase one complete. Soren copped a stray. Need med site.

I drop a pin to our location and await Agent O’s response.

ETA seven minutes.

Pocketing my phone, my eyes find Soren again. “Can you live for seven minutes?”

He growls something under his breath that sounds a lot like, fuck you or kill you, but I can’t be sure. My eyes catch on the slow rise and fall of his chest. It’s ridiculous, but part of me wonders what it would take to make him come undone for reasons that have nothing to do with violence and everything to do with sex.

Squatting down, I haul his arm over my shoulder. He lets me help him upright before pushing me away. Pride is bleeding out faster than the bullet wound, clearly. Soren stumbles out the front door of the cabin, nearly tripping over the body of Jackass Two. Any inroads we might have made with each other are totally destroyed now.

We are right back to that hateful square one.

Chapter 8

Soren

She shot me.

Fucking bitch.

Chapter 9

Raine

Ten Days Later

Pulling into the Agency’s private airfield, I feel relaxed, even though I’m late. The Agency black site is exactly as I remember, carefully hidden and impossible for the average person to find. The airstrip has no tower, no signage, and no lights. It’s just a slab of runway concrete in the middle of nowhere. The Agency’s black private jet waits for me, engines whirring. Soren’s already on board. I know this because there’s a tattooed middle finger pressed against the window.

Prick.

I haven’t seen or heard from him since he was carted off from Lukas’s cabin to one of the Agency’s medical black sites. Do I feel bad about accidentally shooting him? Maybe one percent bad. The other ninety-nine? Certain he brought it on himself by acting like a reckless, undisciplined idiot. I expect more from an ex-black ops, special forces soldier, or whatever the hell he is. Aren’t they supposed to secure the perimeter before going all John Wick?

Doc Martens clanking up the stairs, I hand my bag to the blonde flight attendant, who receives it with a fake-ass smile, welcoming me inside the cabin.

My organs somersault when I spot him.

Soren sits on a cream leather lounge, legs spread, one tattooed arm draped over the backrest, the other holding a battered leather notebook. He is infuriatingly hot. Like something sculpted from the depths of hell.

His eyes drag over me, slow and assessing … and still furious as fuck. “You’re late.”

I sink into the lounge seat across from him, crossing one leg over the other. I widen my eyes, playing the innocent schoolgirl. “Sorry, Daddy.”

Sarcasm. I’m fluent.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You gonna ask me how I am?”

I give him a once-over. “Two arms, two legs, one smart-ass mouth. You look fine.”