Chapter 849
“Air is good,” Julian said pleasantly. “But wandering around at three in the morning in a house with a military-grade security system? That’s risky, Travis.”
The dog took a step forward, teeth baring in a silent snarl.
“I didn’t know about the dog,” Travis whispered.
“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Julian said. He took a sip of his drink, his gaze boring into Travis. “Go to bed. Skye wants to see you in the morning. And Travis?”
“Yes?”
Julian pointed to the scanner in the grass with his glass. “Pick up your toy. You wouldn’t want the gardener to run it over.”
Travis went cold. Julian knew.
“It’s just my phone,” Travis lied weakly, bending down to retrieve the device.
𝘋𝗈𝘸n𝗹𝗈a𝘥аble 𝖯𝖣F𝘀 o𝗇 𝗴а𝗹𝗻о𝗏e𝗅s.𝖼𝘰m
“Of course it is,” Julian smiled. “Sleep tight.”
Travis retreated inside, his legs shaking so badly he could barely walk.
Back in the guest wing, the storm of passion had settled into a quiet, comfortable warmth. Skye lay with her head on Alistair’s chest, tracing the jagged line of an old scar along his ribs.
“Julian texted,” she said softly, glancing at her phone on the nightstand. “Travis is mapping the perimeter.”
Alistair groaned. He reached over, grabbed her phone, turned it off, and tossed it onto the armchair across the room.
“Hey!” Skye protested, sitting up. The sheet fell away, exposing her back to the cool air.
Alistair pulled her back down. “Focus. Travis will still be a traitor in the morning.”
“This is important, Alistair. If he’s mapping the perimeter, he’s planning an extraction. Or an insertion.”
“He’s terrified,” Alistair said, wrapping his arms around her. “Julian is playing with his food. Let him. Tonight, you are not the CEO. You are not the Avenger. You are mine.”
Skye felt heat rise in her cheeks. “You’re possessive.”
“I’m protective,” he corrected, kissing the top of her head. “And maybe a little possessive. You almost died three times this week, Skye. Allow me a moment to hold onto what I almost lost.”
Skye softened. She pressed a kiss to his chest. “Okay. Tomorrow, we hunt. Tonight, we sleep.”
But sleep was elusive.
The next morning, Skye woke to the smell of coffee and bacon. She blinked open her eyes to find the space beside her empty.
She pulled on Alistair’s discarded dress shirt and padded into the kitchen.
Alistair Thorne — the man who terrified half the city’s criminal underworld — was standing at the stove in gray sweatpants, flipping an omelet.
The scene was so unexpectedly domestic that Skye had to lean against the doorframe just to process it.
“Eat,” Alistair said without turning around. “We’re going to Vance’s ops room. I have a feeling our little mole is going to dig himself a hole today.”
Skye walked over and wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her face into his back. “You cook?”
“Survival skill,” he said. “Lucian can’t boil water without blowing up the kitchen.”
Skye laughed. “Okay. Let’s eat. Then we go catch a rat.”