I raise an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’ll let them arrest you alive?”
He snorts, his nostrils flaring. “You’ve lost your mind. Heroics never interested you. Tell me why you’re really here?”
“Reasons,” I snap, fluttering a step closer, completely oblivious to his little popgun. “Don’t make me recite them or we’ll be here all day. I’d much rather get right into it, wouldn’t you? Be reasonable, now.”
That last line was chosen carefully. It takes me back to a deep, dark place I know he has to remember, even if it’s tucked back in the recesses of his rotten weasel brain.
“I’m exceedingly reasonable, Miss Delaney.” He stressed that word, reasonable. He knows. But he’s still talking, enjoying the sound and taste of his own voice. “You and I, we have history.”
“Yeah. History,” I bite off, already tensing my legs, ready to move. “One you wrote to suit your own greed.”
For just a split second, it all comes rushing back.
* * *
Fifteen Years Ago
I don’t do grief.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I stand numbly across from Leland Durham in his plush office and listen to him roll off platitudes about how I’ll always have a family at Galentron.
How he knew Oliver and I had gotten close, that things were serious between us, and he understands how devastated I must be, especially when I’m pregnant with Oliver’s child.
I want to fucking throat-punch this man.
Especially every time he dares to bring up our baby.
A child I never told another living soul about, much less anyone at Galentron.
So either Oliver spilled it to Durham, which I totally doubt…or it’s worse than I ever thought.
It’s so bad my blood runs colder than liquid nitrogen.
They’re watching me more closely than I realized.
Monitoring my every move. I should’ve known the God-like tracking would continue long after officially “graduating” Nightjars. Growing up, I couldn’t move my pinky without an entire Galentron psychiatric team knowing.
Which makes me wonder if I’m the reason Oliver’s dead.
Because you can bet more than anything I don’t believe a mugger in a back alley took out a man like Oliver and left him for dead.
There’s no body.
No fucking body and I can’t find anything about a funeral, no matter how much I dig.
Oliver’s personnel file has mysteriously vanished from the system, or at least been moved where my credentials can’t access it—and with Durham talking about sending me outside Seattle to keep watch on the executives managing the big SP-73 study in Montana, at this point there’s not much my security credentials can’t access.
Unless someone deliberately wants to hide something from me.
Durham disappeared Oliver.
If he’s gone thanks to me, I don’t know how I’ll live with myself.
And I don’t know how to protect our child, if Durham will go so far when it comes to managing his assets as he sees fit.
Speaking of assets…
He half-smiles, his syrupy platitude smile that’s so insincere I could claw it right off his face.
“Your child will be well cared for, Miss Delaney,” he promises. “You won’t have to worry about raising them alone. You and Oliver are—my condolences, were—two of our finest personnel. A child of yours will have amazing potential as an asset. We’d be more than happy to assist in nurturing that potential, rather than leaving it solely in your hands. Why, you’re practically my own daughter. You’re Galentron’s.”
That knocks the air right out of me.
Total horror.
And I think the only reason Durham’s still alive right now is because I’m in shock over the fact that I’ll never see Oliver’s strong, handsome, life-giving face again.
I just know the grim truth: no matter how it happened, it’s done.
He’s dead.
Galentron doesn’t make mistakes when it comes to the reaper business.
My hands clench into fists as I take a slow, arcing step forward.
“You…”
My voice shakes. I can’t fucking help myself.
There’s a volcanic rage building up inside me, like all the coldness I’ve cultivated over the years is cracking here and now, revealing the molten inferno hidden inside.
It’s beyond ready to erupt in his face.
“You…you stay the hell away from my baby, Durham!” I choke out. “She’s not yours. She’s not your property.”
Durham, cold as ever, just smiles at me, completely unafraid, even though I could snap his neck in seconds with no one the wiser. Too bad I’d pay for it with my baby’s life, and my own.
“Be reasonable, now, Fuchsia,” he says, ever-so-kindly. “Don’t you know I only want what’s best for you? That’s all I’ve ever wanted for my Nightjars.”
* * *
Present
“So?” I spit at him.
I’m still holding on to my smile, which claws at my face, purely because I know damned well it unnerves him as much as the click of hard candy against my teeth. “Is this what you meant when you said you wanted what’s best for me?”
I start moving—but he stops me with a warning shot, finger snapping quickly enough on the trigger to make the golden Colt jerk.