“Only when I want to be boring,” I say, casually leaning against the wall, eyes still on her. “And I don’t think you’d like me boring.”
Jasmine turns to face me then, one eyebrow raised, the heat between us tightening like a drawn bowstring.
“I don’t think I like you at all.”
I peel off my jacket, offering it to her. “I think you like me just fine.”
“And why would you say that?”
“Because your nipples are staring right at me through that flimsy-ass tank top.” My grin is wicked, sharp. “And unless you're cold, which Idoubtin this sauna of a state, I'd say you’re a little worked up.”
Her cheeks flush a perfect shade of pink—one I’d like to see again, and lower—and she snatches the jacket from my hand with a hissed, “Asshole.”
But before she can throw it back at me, the elevator dings.
The doors slide open to reveal a bachelor pad penthouse fit for a king—or a criminal with a love for decadence.
Dark hardwood stretches across the open floor plan, offset by matte black finishes and marble columns. A sleek kitchen gleams in the corner, untouched. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, showing off a panoramic view of the Dallas skyline, glittering in the dark like fallen stars.
Low leather furniture, clean lines, and the subtle smell of cedar and expensive cologne hang in the air like sex and secrets.
I step out first whistling, my hands stuffing into my front pockets.
“Esto más te vale que no sea una mamada, cabrón.” A voice growls from the corner of the room, just as I slide onto the couch.
“Cast?” Jasmine hisses from behind me, but I just swing my forearm over my eyes and slump into the buttery leather.
Juan “Cast” Castillo is the head of the Mexican Cartel—and one of the few men who laughed the first time he heard my name instead of pissing himself.
Can’t blame him, really. A trained killer namedLandon Heart? It sounds like the punchline to a bad joke. Meanwhile, Cast is known across borders asLa Parca.The Grim Reaper. The kind of name that makes people go quiet in a room.
Me? I never got a moniker that cool. The Brits don’t mythologize their monsters—they just hire them. But when people hearmyname, they run. I guess that’s enough. Landon Heart. Trained killer with a knack for stealing hearts—literally.
And yeah, there’s something poetic about watching a heart still beating in your hand. Call it my thing.
“You brought her here?” Cast snarls, but I keep my eyes closed.
“The Italians want her dead,” I drone. “Actually they want Willow dead, and she just admitted that she was Willow.”
Cast groans, and I don’t even have to look up to know he’s probably staring at Jasmine like she’s grown three bloody heads. That’s his usual reaction to anything that doesn’t fit neatly into his violent little kingdom of order and control.
Now, Willow? She’s Cast’s girl. Or more accurately, theChessmen’sgirl—Cast, Damien Sterling, Vincent Beaumont.Powerhouses, the lot of them. Whatever went down to make them let her go... it had to be catastrophic. Fucking unthinkable.
Because me? If my girl ever ran, I’d be on her heels before she made it to the end of the street. No way I’d just let her go. No way in hell.
“That was foolish, Jasmine,” Cast snaps, his voice a low snarl thick with contempt. “Didn’t take you for a fucking idiot.”
I sit up straight at that. BecauseLa Parcaor not, I don’t give a damn who he is—he doesn’t speak to her like that. Not while I’m breathing.
“Steady on, Cast,” I say coolly, folding my hands in front of me as I hunch over my knees. “You don’t have to like what she did, but you’ll mind your bloody tone.”
He turns to me, face a mask of stone. Only the slight twitch of his nose betrays the fact that I’ve poked the bear.
Good.
If Jasmine weren’t here, he’d probably already be halfway across the room, blade in hand. But I’m banking on the fact that the Cartel prefers strategy over spectacle these days. And I need this arrangement to go off without a hitch. Can’t afford to start a war before we’ve even had a drink. Not when everything is leveraging on me having a nice and easy relationship with the cartel. It’s the only way I can get out of this alive.
Still—Cast can be the Reaper all he likes. But if he speaks to her like that again, we’ll see just how much flesh Death’s willing to lose.
