AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Put your clothes back on.” His voice is deadly soft, but it slices through my rambling like a hot steak knife.
Then, he pulls out his wallet, tugs out a wedge of cash, and drops it on my dresser. “And move out of this fucking apartment.”
Without another word or even a glance in my direction, he stalks back down the hallway, opens the front door, and slams it shut behind him.
I can barely catch my breath when the loud rock music comes to an abrupt stop. A few moments later, Billie pops her head out of her door. Her eyes are bloodshot and there’s a lazy frown creased into her forehead. She looks at me, to the front door, then back again. “Who was that?”
I have no idea.
Cillian
I throw myself into working through Poppy’s list. Anything to distract me from all the secrets burning in Dahlia Rose’s cyan eyes.
She’s not my problem.
Not my problem.
So, I’ll keep my head down and do my jobs. Even boring ones that won’t end in bloodshed.
Donnacha was right: not killing is harder for me than killing. Why? Because I only know one or one hundred, I can never stop on a number in between. My self-restraint is unrivaled, iron-clad and galvanized, but as soon as I give myself an inch, then I don’t just run a mile. I run the entire fucking marathon.
It’s the first crack of a bone, the first drop of blood. The second I feel or taste it then I’m off, like a lion from its den, and won’t stop until I devour my prey.
Dahlia Rose is no exception.
I knew better. I knew I wouldn’t be able to just drive by the address on the slip of paper Leon gave me. I knew I’d have toseeher. And when I saw her coming out of her apartment, black hair piled high on her head, doe-eyes darting around, I knew I had to follow her. After three days of watching her every move, I almost reigned myself back in—almost—until she came out of her apartment at night. When I stopped her from entering that fucking den of sin, Room 101…
I knew I had to stop her.
Then, I knew I had to have her.
My fist slams into my steering wheel as the memory of her recoiling from my touch poisons my brain.
You went too far. Now you really have to stay away.
Back to business.
I park a few blocks away from the sky-rise on Poppy’s list and glance back down at her notes. Wren Humphrey, mad scientist-turned-cupid. He’s the Founder and CEO ofChromoLove Dating,a dystopian, high-tech app that uses your DNA to match you with genetically compatible people.
I snort.Quinn Ventures will invest in any old shitto make a quick buck these days.
This will be an easy job for two reasons.
One: Men in suits with squeaky clean records and trust funds shit their pants the second you snarl at them. Tried and tested with the two other names I’ve already crossed off Poppy’s list.
Two: I have a meeting with the man himself. Turns out, you can book a VIP consultation with Humphrey. According to the website, he’ll go through your DNA with a fine-tooth comb, using his expertise for a more precise match. For the hefty price of ten grand a pop, of course.
I’ll be claiming those expenses back from my client, that’s for sure.
The building is like every shiny office in America. Glass, steel, waxed floors. Filled with smiling receptionists and the sound of suits trying to look busy.
Said smiling receptionist checks out my fake ID then points me to an elevator bank, with the instruction to take it to the twenty-seventh floor. When I get there, the doors ping open to reveal another grinning receptionist, holding out a clear bag with a Q-Tip, glass vial, and a tub of liquid.
“Take a seat, please,” she beams, placing the DNA kit in my hand. “Mr. Humphrey will be right out.”
And he is — on a fucking Segway, no less. It’s near impossible not to roll my eyes at the dumb fucker zooming around, as if it’s not a thirty-second walk to his corner office at the end of the hall.
“Aaron Smith? Welcome toChromoLove Dating,I can’t wait to help you find love today!”
