That hadn’t crossed his mind…and it should have. Fuck.

  Looking ready to dissolve into tears, she shoved against him and edged toward the door. “I have to go.”

  Seriously, that was it? She was done talking? Pain spread through his chest and ice-picked through his veins.

  One-Mile sucked at relationships. Did her hesitation have anything to do with his confession about his father? Probably, but he couldn’t stay to fix it. He couldn’t fucking risk her. “So do I, but we will talk about this later.”

  “What’s the point?” Brea wrenched the door open.

  Before she could flee, he slapped a big palm over her head and slammed it shut, locking them in again. He should let her go; he knew it. Instead, he stupidly backed her against the door and slanted his mouth over hers, ravaging her like he intended to tattoo her taste on his tongue.

  After a little gasp, she grabbed him with desperate fingers, dragged him closer, and opened to him. He tasted her desperation as he sank deep and reveled in her softness. Their breaths merged. Her body clung.

  Fuck, she felt like home.

  Suddenly, she pushed him away and glared with accusing eyes. “Stop. You have your reasons for not wanting me to move in and—”

  “Because while I was gone—”

  “I don’t care why you changed your mind or who you slept with or…whatever. My dad found out about us and asked me not to see you for a month. After thoughtful consideration, I think he may be right.”

  “What?” Why the fuck would she think that?

  Because she didn’t love him, after all?

  “We were never going to work out. It’s best if you don’t come back.” She shoved him away and wriggled out the door.

  One-Mile watched, too stunned to stop her.

  By the time he surged outside in pursuit, she had already climbed in her car. He bit back the urge to call out to her. What good would it do?

  She thought it was over, and she would keep her distance. It was best…for now.

  But the second this shit with Montilla got sorted, he would hunt her down and resolve everything. He’d explain. He’d even beg if he had to. And since she couldn’t simply move in with him, he would propose. He loved her. He wanted to spend his life with her.

  As soon as he figured out what the fuck had happened to change her mind.

  One-Mile watched Brea drive away with a curse, vowing that he would set eyes—and every other part of him—on her again.

  Thank you for reading Wicked as Sin! If you enjoyed this book, please review and/or recommend it to your reader friends. That means the world to me!

  Can’t wait to find out what’s next for One-Mile and Brea? Read on…

  ABOUT WICKED EVER AFTER

  The good girl is keeping a secret? He’ll seduce it out of her until she begs to be his.

  Sniper Pierce “One-Mile” Walker nearly had everything he ever wanted—until a fateful mission stripped it all away. Now an outcast, he’s forced to watch the off-limits beauty who stole his heart slip through his fingers. Left with nothing but revenge, he’s determined to defeat evil and win her back. But when he learns she’s planning a future without him, he vows he’ll break every rule and defy all odds to make her his again—forever.

  Brea Bell was always a good girl…until Pierce Walker. Despite everyone’s warnings, she gave the rough warrior her body—and her heart. When she receives news that shatters her world, he devastates her by walking away. Terrified of losing all she’s ever known, Brea tucks away her dreams and commits to a “safe” future. Then Pierce appears in the dead of night, challenging and seducing her. Brea isn’t sure she can trust him…but she also can’t say no.

  Angry and betrayed, he leaves to pursue vengeance, while her sins are exposed to the world, forcing her to fight painful battles. Can Brea and Pierce conquer the dangers that threaten their happily ever after…or will fate wrench them apart forever?

  Saturday, November 1

  Louisiana

  As everyone in the salon joked and laughed around her, Brea Bell held in a sob.

  Pierce Walker didn’t want her anymore. Sure, he’d come up with an excuse, but the truth was he’d pushed her away. He’d lied. He had never loved her.

  That reality pelted her brain in a litany through the long day of stilted smiles and prying clients.

  It took all her will not to break down, but she refused to weep over a man who’d abruptly decided she wasn’t enough for him.

  Still, she couldn’t stop turning their brief conversation over in her head.

  If he no longer wanted or loved her, why had he rushed home to see her? And kissed her as if his life depended on it?

  The man had always confused her.

  As she swept the last of the hair from the floor and stored the broom, the chime on the empty salon’s front door rang. She turned, hoping to see a friendly face.

  Cutter appeared around the privacy partition dividing the front desk from the clients. “Hey, Bre-bee.”

  “You’re back!” She ran to him.

  He opened his arms and hugged her tight. “You okay?”

  She clung gratefully. He’d always been her lifeline. “Tell me what happened to you. Your client got kidnapped? And you got a concussion?” She skimmed her fingertips across his face. “That’s a nasty scrape on your cheek, but whatever gave you that bruise at your temple must have hurt like the dickens. And what about that long scratch on your chin?”

  Cutter pulled back with a scowl. “I’ll heal. But it wasn’t my finest case. Thankfully, Jolie Quinn, my client, kept her head up. Her corporate security specialist, Heath, managed to save her. They both got out alive.”

  “Oh, thank goodness everyone is all right.”

  “I’m not going to lie. Wednesday was rough. I should have done better.”

  She laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I know you. I’m sure you did everything you could.”

  “Except pee with my back against the wall,” he groused. “But how are you? Feeling any better?”

  Brea glanced into the break room to make sure everyone had, in fact, left. Finding it empty, she returned to Cutter’s side with a frown. “Not so good. Lots of nausea and exhaustion.”

  “Your text said your doctor appointment is Monday morning at eleven?”

  She nodded. “Can you make it?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for coming to see me. I could use a friend.” Tears filled her eyes.

  So much for her vow not to cry. But at the thought of never seeing Pierce again, hot drops scalded her cheeks.

  “Hey, Bre-Bee, shh… I know you’re worried. But don’t borrow trouble until you’ve seen the obstetrician and—”

  “P-Pierce broke up with me this morning.”

  “What?” His mouth pinched. His nostrils flared. His fists clenched. “Are you kidding me? You told him you were pregnant, and that motherfucker—”

  “I didn’t get to tell him. I don’t know what happened…” She sniffled. “Before he left on a mission last Thursday, he told me he loved me. He asked me to move in with him. But when he showed up at my house this morning, he…”

  She couldn’t finish that sentence without falling apart.

  “Dumped you. What reason did he give?”

  “He didn’t. He just said that something had come up and he couldn’t see me anymore. But he seemed impatient. Or nervous. I’m not sure. And he talked to me like…he was already half out the door.”

  “Oh, Bre-bee.” He caressed her back and held her as the tears she didn’t want to shed fell freely. “I’m sorry.”

  “You warned me.” She dragged in a deep breath and tried to stop blubbering. “B-but I’m so confused… When he told me he didn’t want me to move in anymore, I told him it was impossible anyway and tried to leave. Then he grabbed me and kissed me like he didn’t want to let me go.”

  “Don’t look for logic where Walker is concerned. You gave yourself to him in good faith because you fell for him. He’s just an asshole who played you. I hate that. And I hate him.” He gritted his teeth. “But now, it’s over. You have to move on. I’ll kick his ass for you.”

  “You can’t. That won’t solve anything. I just don’t know what I’m going to do if the doctor confirms I’m pregnant.”

  “Well, Pierce wasn’t going to be much help as a father anyway, so don’t bother giving two shits about him.”

  She couldn’t put this on his shoulders. “Cutter…”

  “Fine.” He clenched his jaw, which told her he wanted to say something more but didn’t to keep the peace. “I won’t bad-mouth him anymore. But I’m right. He’s gone, and you’re better off. Don’t worry. You know I’ve always taken care of you.” He squeezed her shoulders. “I always will.”

  One-Mile ambled around his house, shaking his goddamn head. Everywhere he looked, he saw Brea. Clutching her cookies in his foyer. Bending over his pool table. Undressing in his dining room. Spreading her naked body across his bed.

  And now she was gone—he feared for good.

  Goddamn it, he felt like he’d taken a dull knife, jabbed it into his chest, and fucking gutted himself.

  You always suspected you were all wrong for her. Good job proving it.

  “Fuck off,” he snarled at the voice in his head.

  He glanced at the wall clock. A little after six. After driving all night, he should have been starving and exhausted. He should have consumed half his refrigerator and crashed until dusk. But no. He’d choked down an egg and a few crackers, taken a scalding shower, then tossed and turned in his pristinely made bed for a few hours.

  Sleep hadn’t come, not with his head turning and his guts rolling.

  He opted for whiskey instead.

  Bottle in hand, he screwed off the cap, planted himself in front of his massive-ass TV, and flipped through the college football games. But he didn’t give a shit who won or lost.

  Hell, he wasn’t sure he’d ever really give a shit about anything again except losing Brea.

  On that cheerful note, he chugged a good quarter of the bottle in one long swallow. If he was going to get completely trashed, why wait?

  But as he lifted the bottle to his lips again, someone began pounding on his door.

  His money was on Cutter.

  By now Brea had probably told her daddy-approved boyfriend that he’d been an absolute asswipe to her. Cutter would come in, full of vitriol and swinging fists.

  One-Mile welcomed it, and Cutter wouldn’t hold back. With physical pain to focus on, maybe One-Mile could forget how much his breaking heart fucking hurt.

  With a sigh, he lunged to his feet and headed toward the insistent knocking. “I know you came to beat the shit out of me. Don’t say anything. Just do it, okay?” He wrenched the door open and reared back. “You’re not Bryant.”

  Instead, all three of his bosses stood on his porch, looking somewhere between disgusted and pissed.

  Clearly, this wasn’t a social call.

  Fuck.

  “None of us is Bryant,” Hunter drawled. “But I’ll be more than happy to take you up on your invitation because you obviously need an ass kicking. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  So they had already heard about Montilla’s capture? Bitchin’. “Yeah, I probably am. I should have just killed that son of a bitch for what he did to me, but when I had him in his wife’s former safe house, I didn’t pull the trigger. I just turned him over like a good little citizen. I thought that would make you happy. But you’re clearly annoyed I didn’t follow orders.”

  “Do you ever turn on the fucking news?” Logan challenged, looking ready to wring his neck.

  Joaquin, who wasn’t much of a talker, rolled his eyes with a grunt and grabbed the remote, flipping the channel to cable news.

  The top-of-the-hour headline horrified him.

  Five Cops Dead, Two Injured in St. Louis Police Department Escape.

  Shock poured over him like a bucket of ice. “Son of a bitch.”

  “Montilla’s thugs rolled in there, shot up the place, then took off with their boss—killing two more cops as they left just for the fun of it.”

  And every one of their deaths was on his head. One-Mile felt utterly sick as he sagged against the wall. “Oh, fuck.”

  “Yeah.” Hunter swiped the bottle from his hand and slammed it on the coffee table. “So you better start giving us reasons not to kill you ourselves. Explain what the fuck you were thinking and why you didn’t clue us in.”

  “And toss in a good rationale for why we shouldn’t fire your insubordinate ass, too,” Logan chimed in.

  Honestly, he couldn’t think of a single one.

  Joaquin grabbed his arm and shoved the cuff of his long-sleeved athletic shirt past his elbow, examining the underside of his forearm. Then he turned to the others. “No new tracks.”

  They thought he was still taking the drugs Montilla and his goons had addicted him to? And that it had led to his lapse in judgment?

  One-Mile jerked free and exposed his other forearm. “Of course there are no fucking new tracks. But here. Examine this arm, too, so you can be really sure. But if you’d just asked me, I would have told you that once I went through detox in the hospital, I haven’t had any other cravings. I wasn’t high in St. Louis. I just fucked up.”

  “You got too involved.” Joaquin turned an accusing glare on the Edgington brothers. “I told you he wasn’t ready for an assignment.”

  “Bullshit,” One-Mile defended. “You asked me to relocate Valeria and her family safely. I did that.”

  “Sure, then you totally ignored orders and went rogue. So don’t fucking yell. You’re lucky we’re talking to you at all. You’re a talented son of a bitch, but not irreplaceable. I wanted to kill you for this stupid-ass stunt.” Joaquin pinned him with cold hazel eyes. His low voice was like a blade down One-Mile’s spine. “I got voted down.”

  “Too bad,” One-Mile quipped. That would have made everything so much easier… “Is Valeria still safe?”

  Logan nodded. “No thanks to you. We’ve warned her. Thankfully, Jack Cole recommended a bodyguard in the area, who’s with her now. She’ll call if she needs us.”

  Thank God for that.

  “Sit,” Hunter demanded. “We’re going to talk.”

  One-Mile flopped onto the sofa, grabbed his bottle, and took a long pull.

  The elder Edgington grabbed the booze from his grip and sent him a narrow-eyed glare. “What the fuck? Jack Daniel’s straight up at four in the afternoon? Did you trade booze for drugs as a way of dealing with the trauma from your last mission to Mexico?”

  No, it was how he was coping with Brea’s loss, but he didn’t owe them that explanation. And he’d be goddamned if he let them slap a PTSD label on him, too. That was getting better…somewhat. But he refused to have that conversation now.

  “Fuck you. It’s been a long day, and I’m kicking back. Are you here for a mental health check, Mommy?”

  “What. The fuck. Happened?” Hunter snarled.

  Since they weren’t going to go away, he started at the beginning, telling the others that he’d gotten Valeria, her son, and her sister out of St. Louis without a hitch. And that with too much time on his hands in Orlando, he’d started to think—about ways to pay back Montilla…and how to catch their mole.

  “At least I’ve figured out who’s betrayed us.” One-Mile explained the email chain.

  Logan leaned in. “You’re sure?”

  “Unless everyone else somehow got the memo…”

  They all shook their heads.

  “First I’m hearing of it.” And Hunter didn’t sound pleased.

  “Then I’m positive. Trees is your asshole.”

  His trio of bosses looked at one another. “Why would he do that?”

  None of them had an answer.

  “Money?” One-Mile suggested. “Drugs? Blackmail?”

  Logan stood, then looked at his brothers. “That other problem we talked about this morning?”

  What did they mean?

  Joaquin raised a dark brow. “You have an idea how to deal with it?”

  “Yeah. Let me look into something.” Logan headed for the door.

  Hunter and Joaquin exchanged a glance before the quiet bastard shook his head. “That frightens me.”

  “Same. We’re coming with you. And you—” Hunter scowled, then pointed a sharp finger in his direction—“don’t do another fucking thing. You don’t even fart without talking to us, am I clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “If you have contacts, start working them—quietly,” Logan insisted from across the house. “Try to find out where Montilla is going and what he plans to do next. Try like your life depends on it.”

  But it wasn’t his life that worried him; it was Brea’s. It seemed likely Montilla or his goons would pay him a visit at some point. One-Mile couldn’t give that son of a bitch any reason to look her way.

  And as the trio left, he shoved the bottle aside, retrieved his laptop, and started calling everyone he knew.

  This time, when he found Montilla, he wouldn’t bother with any slap-and-tickle torture before an orderly arrest; he would just kill the bastard, possible repercussions be damned. At least Brea would be safe.

  Nothing else mattered.

  Monday, November 3

  Brea walked out of the doctor’s office at the clinic in Lafayette, feeling numb and stunned. Her life would never be the same.

  Cutter rose to his feet in the empty waiting room and stared. But his grim face told her he expected her next words.

  “I’m pregnant.” Her whisper turned to a sob.

  With a soft curse, he pulled her into his arms, stroking a big, comforting hand down her back. “Bre-bee…”

  She sank against him and clung for comfort.

  Except his two tours in Afghanistan, Cutter had been there for her since the day she was born. She had pictures of him, a gangly eight-year-old boy, holding her as an infant. She’d grown up next door to him. Though he had relocated to nearby Lafayette after returning from the Middle East, she saw him all the time. They spoke most every day. He had been her staple, her rock…and sometimes, her shield from the real world.