Fighting back yawns—the clock now reads 3AM—I try out the fancy espresso machine. I end up breaking it, unleashing steam that burns the back of my hand when I try to unplug the stupid thing.
Now what?
What time does Cain arrive at the office in the morning? I feel like he’s the kind of guy to follow a strict routine. Heavy work-out regimen. Probably cooks all his meals.
It hits me that Cain’s going to be pissed when he sees what I’ve done to the office. Will he kill me for the intel I’ve gained on his company? I doubt he keeps the city informed of all of his business activities.
Should I try searching for the drive? Or would that earn me some torture? What if this is a test?
I comb both of my hands through my wild hair, yanking at my roots. Shit, I’ve definitely failed.Shit. Shit. Shit.
Well, if I’m already doomed, I might as well keep letting this madness reign free.
I stroll past Cain’s office. Once. Twice. My fingers trace over the etched gold nameplate on the wall by his door. I picture his dark hair and rich brown eyes and cut jaw and strong hands.
Blood surges to my cock. I sigh. He is a bit dreamy, if not for the whole simmering temper and murderous tendencies.
This infatuation is completely foreign to me. I usually don’t think too much about other people. They exist around me, but the only time I take notice is when my brain warns me that I’m in danger.
Giving in to temptation, I break into his office with my handy dandy makeshift lock pick. I drop into his plush chair. Lights from the city spillthrough the floor-to-ceiling windows and blur in my tired vision as I spin around and around.
When I scramble his mouse to wake up his computer, I’m prompted for a password. I’m no hacker. My failed guesses lock up his dual screens.
I notice the lack of family pictures and mementos in his office. There are no glimpses into Cain’s life within these walls. Does he even use his office? Or is it kept for appearances as he stalks the city with vengeance?
Settling deeper into his plush chair, I must keep my eyes closed longer than planned because soon I fall asleep.
CHAPTER EIGHT
CAIN
Istartle awake in a tangle of sweaty sheets, convinced I heard the lock on my front door click open.
Leaping from my bed, I reach for the loaded gun in my nightstand drawer and storm through my apartment in nothing but my boxer briefs. My rattled brain tells me there are enemies everywhere. Hidden behind closed doors. Storming the floors of my building.
And the corpses. They always pile up behind closed eyes. I get to watch bullets rip through their flesh in my sleep each night.
Finding nothing amiss in my dark, quiet home, I lean my weight against the wall in my entryway and just… breathe.
It’s rare that I dream, but when I do, it’s always of my failures. Before I was a businessman and a mercenary, I was a soldier. The first time I killed, yeah… it sat heavy in my brain for a while, but once I was weaned of that horror, I became good at taking lives. Good at compartmentalizing my emotions, too.
Until Aiden.
He unraveled everything inside of me. Lifted the seals on the darkness I’d kept hidden when my service came to an abrupt end.
I’d met him at some local restaurant bar shortly after I’d started up Sinro Enterprises. The stress of my new business, combined with PTSD, led me to drink a bit excessively. He’d called me an Uber to get me home safe that night, his number tucked into my back pocket.
I ignored the temptation for a while, but then we kept meeting up at that same bar. It was easy to believe I’d found my forever wrapped up in his arms. One second in time—a single blast of a gun—changed that. Changed the entire trajectory of my life. Left me with gaping holes where unwanted emotions sometimes bled out.
I knead my fingers along my tense brows. Maybe I need to have a talk with my middle brother, Isaac. Clear my head. He’d have sage advice on what to do with Ezra.
As our client relations specialist and staff therapist, Isaac has always been the most level-headed of us Vincent boys. Though I do question if he does more than take people out to eat.
My phone buzzes from the charger on the granite kitchen counter. I pad over to it, still clutching my gun, and check the time. Just after 6AM. The sky is dark, but it’s past the time I normally head into work.
And there’s a good fucking reason I’m always the first one in the office. Dozens of missed calls and texts from my staff alert me of something wrong.
Instead of wasting time trying to read all of them, I suit up and exit my apartment, striding for the elevator.
