After double-checking his equipment and perfecting his angle, One-Mile opened the old-fashioned window, heedless of the damp chill. The downpour had dried up to an occasional spit. Even better, the hotel’s external light above seemed to have burned out, leaving him in charcoal shadows.

  Breathing through an adrenaline rush and his pounding heartbeat, he hunkered behind his scope and set in to wait.

  He was ready.

  At precisely nine p.m., the girl across the street suddenly jerked and reluctantly opened her door. And what do you know? Montilla walked inside, right on time, as he had every other week, sporting a lascivious leer and a boner.

  Only a lowlife drug lord worth millions would come to a slum for a ten-dollar teenage prostitute. Depraved fuck.

  Montilla didn’t say anything before pulling off her T-shirt. Since she wasn’t wearing a bra, her small breasts popped free. Then he pushed her down to the bed, lifted her skirt, and spread her legs before shrugging out of his water-beaded jacket.

  The redhead closed her eyes, bracing herself, as his hand dropped to his zipper and he yanked it down.

  Maybe he could have let Montilla have one final good time before he bit the dust, but One-Mile knew people had always thought of him as an asshole. Why break form now? After what Montilla had put him through, he gave zero fucks about robbing this son of a bitch of one last orgasm, one last chance to cheat on his wife, and one last opportunity to take advantage of someone smaller, weaker, and poorer than him. Pity the fucker would never know what hit him, but getting the satisfaction of his face being the last thing this lowlife saw was Hollywood shit.

  His job now boiled down to aligning his shot and pulling the fucking trigger.

  That’s murder, Logan reminded in his head.

  Fuck him. If his boss couldn’t see that the world would be much safer without this violent, drug-manufacturing rapist roaming it, then he’d definitely lost his edge. As far as One-Mile was concerned, he was performing a fucking public service. Sure, he’d be saving Brea; that was his first priority. But he’d have a clean conscience when he left here because this girl would have one less john and Baby Jorge would have the chance to grow up with his mother.

  Too bad no one had helped his own mom before it was too late.

  At the memory, his anger spiked. His heartbeat surged. He breathed, trying to calm it while Montilla dropped his pants around his ankles. But One-Mile’s palms were unusually clammy. His hands shook. He couldn’t fucking compartmentalize this mission like he had all the others. He wasn’t killing this asshole for his unit or his country. This was personal. If he made this kill shot, months of fucking torment and worry would be over. He could finally go home, meet Brea’s daddy, wait for their baby, and love him or her forever. That was more than enough incentive for him.

  But first, he had to fucking focus on the actions—which he’d performed hundreds of times—not the stakes. If he thought about the consequences for fucking up, he’d never succeed.

  Dragging in one more breath, One-Mile forcibly cleared his mind to steady himself and froze, hyper-focused. He didn’t blink or hesitate. And he definitely didn’t let Montilla climb on top of the girl. He merely curled his finger around the trigger and squeezed.

  Through the scope, he watched the asshole for the pure thrill, but he didn’t need to wait the fraction of a second it took for the bullet to plow into the fucker’s temple to know he’d hit his mark. It was done.

  Montilla was finally dead.

  As the drug lord crumpled to the ground and the redhead screamed, One-Mile closed the window and packed up his equipment with an economy of movement, hurrying without rushing. When he was done, he slung everything on his back, wiped every surface he’d touched clean, pulled his hoodie over his face again, and trotted down to the lobby. As if he didn’t have a care in the world, he bypassed the people scurrying and clustering around the bordello, ducked out the hotel’s back entrance, then disappeared down an alley and into the rain once again driving.

  He didn’t mind getting drenched now. Tomorrow, there would be sunlight because tomorrow there would be Brea.

  Saturday, January 10

  Comfort, Texas

  Brea dabbed at her happy tears as she watched Cutter dance with his new bride. After a touching ceremony in Shealyn’s grandparents’ barn that seemed so quintessentially small-town Texas, they clung together under fairy lights and swayed to Ed Sheeran, blocking out the rest of the world inside their bubble of happiness. It was probably a good skill since the press continued to hound them. But for this moment they looked ecstatic.

  Hard to believe that, after their two-week Maui honeymoon at the Sunshine Coast Bed-and-Breakfast, Cutter would be moving to California with his new wife.

  Brea was both happy for her best friend and beyond sad that he’d be leaving her. It added an extra pall over her despair.

  Nearly a month had passed since she’d last seen or heard from Pierce.

  This morning, a news report had claimed Emilo Montilla had been shot dead last night in a bordello in Mexico City by an unknown assailant. After hearing the report, she’d brimmed with hope. While Brea wouldn’t celebrate any person’s death…she didn’t mourn the drug lord’s loss. All day, she’d waited for a call or message from Pierce that he was coming home safely to her.

  But the hours had dragged by without any word. By afternoon, worry had set in. As preparations for the wedding continued and the guys from EM Security had rolled in before the ceremony, she’d asked Logan if he’d heard from Pierce. He’d given her a regretful shake of his head and a few well-meaning words. By sundown, her worry had contorted into thick dread.

  A man like Montilla probably had a lot of enemies. His death didn’t mean Pierce had been the one to kill him. Someone else could easily have ended the terrible man’s reign of terror…while her man lay rotting in an underground compound or a shallow grave somewhere.

  Brea tried to shake off all the destructive what-ifs and worries, but it was useless. If Pierce hadn’t surfaced in the twenty-four hours since Montilla’s death, she feared there was an awful reason.

  She dabbed at more tears.

  “You okay?” Cage asked, slipping a brotherly arm around her.

  She tried to smile. “Sure. How about you? I know you were expecting to see Karis here.”

  “Yeah.” He sounded down.

  “Do you know why she didn’t come?”

  Cage sent a sideways glance to Karis’s sister, Jolie Powell, who stood with her husband Heath. “They said she suddenly caught a cold.”

  “And you don’t believe that?”

  “It’s possible…but no,” he grumbled.

  Gossip said Cage and Karis had rung in the New Year together—naked, tequila-soaked, and oblivious to their screams and groans keeping the neighbors awake. She’d been aloof since.

  Cage was a good guy, and Karis would be a fool to pass him up.

  Brea tried to give him an encouraging smile. “I doubt she’s avoiding you.”

  “I know she is. She’s made that perfectly clear.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “Can we talk about something else?”

  “Sure.” Brea scrambled for a topic. “Ever think you’d have a TV star for a sister-in-law?”

  “No. Honestly, it’s kind of weird. I got off shift a few days back and some reporter was waiting at my truck, asking my opinion about my brother’s upcoming wedding, the bride, their future…and climate change.”

  Brea managed to laugh. “I’ll bet you’ve perfected the ‘no comment’ response by now. I sure have. Not that what I say matters. Even when I’ve corrected them, those tabloid rags are determined to push the story that I’m Cutter’s something on the side.”

  “Of course. It’s juicier if he’s marrying one of People’s Most Beautiful People while flaunting his pretty baby mama under her nose.”

  She grimaced. “They’re all liars.”

  “Can’t deny that. Listen, I know you’re used to having my brother around, but I’m going to take care of you after he’s gone. I’ll be farther away but—”

  “You don’t have to.” Brea placed a hand over the little swell of her belly covered by her burgundy chiffon bridesmaid dress. “We’ll be fine. Everyone seems to forget that I’m a grown woman. But I’ll keep reminding y’all. Even Daddy is coming around.”

  “You’re going to have a little one soon, probably alone and—”

  “Don’t say that.” It was likely true, but Brea wasn’t ready to accept it.

  “Honey, Walker isn’t here. And I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  “He is. He has to be.” But her reaction was more of a knee-jerk than a conviction.

  “Maybe. If he’s able. But besides the fact he’s an absolute douche, I have to be honest. A mission like that has wiped out squads of soldiers, even taken out most of a SEAL team. He’s one sniper alone.”

  “Stop!” She jerked away and fought a rise of more tears. Cage wasn’t saying anything she didn’t know, but she didn’t need to be reminded that Pierce’s survival chances were slim—and dwindling by the hour. “I’m clinging to hope right now. Please don’t take it from me.”

  “Okay. I’m sorry. I just want you to know that, after Cutter is gone, I’ll be around as much as I can.”

  Cage meant to be helpful, and she had snapped at him. “I’m sorry, too. I’m just really worried about Pierce. Constantly. I know the odds aren’t good, but if anyone could survive and succeed, it’s him.”

  Every day, she’d prayed. Every night, she’d cried. Now all she could do was try to beat back despair and hold on to hope. Pierce had returned once. If there were such a thing as miracles, maybe he could pull off one again.

  Suddenly, she heard a commotion on the opposite side of the tent. Cage frowned and whipped his gaze around, looking over the crowd, toward the ruckus. His eyes went wide. “Holy shit.”

  “What?” Brea really resented being so short. No matter how she stood on her tiptoes and craned to peer around everyone, all she saw was the crowd’s backs.

  “Speak of the devil.”

  Which devil? On this earth, she only knew one…

  Hope gripped her chest. “Pierce?”

  “You shouldn’t be here, Walker.” Brea vaguely recognized Josiah Grant’s voice.

  That was all the confirmation Brea needed. Astonishment closed her throat as she turned to tug on Cage’s sleeve. “Oh, my gosh, he’s really here? Can you see him?”

  “Yeah. Somehow, he slipped past all our security and waltzed right the hell in. I’ll be damned…”

  Thank God!

  All Brea could hear was her own heartbeat roaring in her ears as she held in a jubilant cry and dashed through the thick crowd. She didn’t care if she was rude or that she bumped into Jennifer Lawrence’s back, spilling the woman’s drink. She only cared about reaching Pierce.

  “Fuck off.” That voice—a dark, sure rasp that always held a note of irritation…except when he talked to her.

  Definitely Pierce. She’d never heard anything so wonderful.

  Her heart lifted. Joy soared. She pressed even quicker through the throng toward him.

  “Now isn’t the time. Cutter doesn’t need this tonight.” Josiah again, clearly trying to keep the peace. “He just got married.”

  “I don’t give a shit about him,” Pierce growled as he yanked free from Josiah’s hold. “Where’s—” Suddenly, their eyes met. He breathed her name. “Brea…”

  She gaped, speechless. Montilla was dead, and Pierce was really, really here.

  They were free!

  As people around her parted to clear her path, Brea’s feet took her forward. She stopped short of Pierce, trembling. She couldn’t stop staring.

  He looked even leaner and more dangerous than he had in December. His burning black eyes sat deep in their sockets as he looked her over, his stare lingering on her middle. She wrapped her hands around their baby. His thick beard was back. He was horribly out of place in a black T-shirt and camo pants. But the sight of him brought her to tears.

  “Brea?” he boomed over the residual chatter and music. She was vaguely aware of heads turning and people whispering. He didn’t seem to care. His sole focus was on her.

  Her throat closed up, and her voice caught. “Pierce…”

  Never breaking their stare, he tossed a chair out of the path between them and charged toward her. Brea’s eyes widened as he backed her against the nearby buffet table with his big body. “I need to talk to you, pretty girl. It won’t wait.”

  The torment on his face ripped at Brea’s heart. Was something wrong? She looked around for privacy so they could talk, but all she saw was a crowd of curious bystanders. “No. Not here. Please.”

  Josiah shoved his way between them with a no-means-no speech all over his face and gave Pierce a push just as Cutter approached, expression hard. “You weren’t invited, asshole.”

  Pierce tore his gaze from her to scowl at him. “You’re married now, and Brea is mine. That’s my baby she’s carrying. So. Back. The. Fuck. Off.”

  “Hey, looks like she doesn’t want your company tonight, big guy,” Josiah cajoled. “Turn around, get in your Jeep, and head to Lafayette.”

  Darn it all, Josiah had no idea what she wanted, much less how badly she wanted to touch Pierce. He was working off old gossip. She’d venture most people here were. And she appreciated that Josiah meant to protect her, but this was ridiculous. “No. It’s—”

  “Like hell,” Pierce growled, then settled his weighty stare on her again. “I’ve waited weeks for this.”

  They both had.

  After more squabbling Brea ignored, Cutter’s bride approached, holding out her hand to Pierce. “Shealyn West. Well, Bryant now. Pierce, Brea is dealing with a lot. She will talk to you when she’s ready. I know she wants to. She just needs a little more space and a bit more time to decide what to do.”

  What?

  Brea hadn’t spilled the details of her relationship with Pierce to the actress. Apparently, Cutter had respected her privacy, too. Either that or Shealyn had been too busy planning their wedding over the last four weeks while flying back and forth between big-city LA and small-town middle-Texas to get the 411. Either way, she wished all the well-meaning people who didn’t understand what was going on would simply shut up.

  Pierce took Shealyn’s hand with a scowl. “What is there to decide? She’s going to marry me.”

  Marry? Brea’s breath caught. Had he really just said that? Pierce had never used that word…yet he spoke like it was a forgone conclusion.

  Shealyn cocked her head as if trying to make him see reason. “You can’t force her—”

  “It’s okay. I’ll talk to him.” Brea placated the woman. It would take far longer to explain, and it was none of anyone’s business. Still, she struggled to keep a silly grin off her face. Marry? “We’re drawing attention, and the last thing I want is for you to stop your festivities for me. Go. Enjoy your honeymoon. I’ll be fine.”

  Cutter looked reluctant. “I won’t leave you when you need me.”

  “Yes.” She took his hand and squeezed it. “You will. You and your wife have two amazing weeks in paradise at the most beautiful little bed-and-breakfast in Maui, ignoring the rest of the world, including me. I’ll talk to Pierce. Josiah and Logan are nearby, just in case.” She wouldn’t need them, but it seemed to make everyone feel better if she had “bodyguards.”

  “Are you sure?” Cutter still looked reluctant to leave her.

  He needed to stop being overprotective.

  “Really.” She hugged him. “I’ll text you later.” At that point, she lost all patience for everyone’s well-meaning interference. “Excuse us.”

  People mercifully backed off. Pierce didn’t waste any time taking her hand in his. He felt so warm and big and alive. It was all she could do not to cry tears of joy.

  Then he dropped to his knees and placed a hand on her belly, cradling their baby. Around them, the small crowd gasped. She ignored everyone else as he touched her with such tenderness. Then there was no stopping the tears from welling in her eyes.

  “Come on,” Shealyn murmured to Cutter. “Let’s give them some privacy and get started on our married life.”

  “All right, sweetheart,” Cutter conceded. “Brea, call if you need anything at all.”

  Nodding absently, she fisted a trembling hand at her side, trying so hard not to throw herself against Pierce in a sobbing puddle, ask him a million questions, and make him promise he’d never leave her again.

  He settled her into a chair and crouched in front of her, his hands in hers. “You okay, baby?”

  She nodded. “Are you?”

  “Yeah. Don’t cry. I’m fine. I promise.”

  She pressed a hand to her mouth to hold in a sob, but it was useless. “Another month with no word from you… It scared me so much. Then I heard this morning that Montilla is dead. Is it true?”

  He nodded. “I killed him last night and I started making my way back to you as soon as the deed was done.”

  “So it really is over?”

  “Yeah. I’m home for good,” he promised. “We can finally be together without you being in danger, and I don’t give a fuck who knows. No, I hope everyone knows. I’m here to finally make you mine.”

  Relief crashed through her. Happiness flooded in, destroying the last of her composure. Tears fell in earnest.

  He cupped her shoulders and pressed his forehead to hers. “That shouldn’t make you sad.”

  She shook her head. “It makes me so happy. But I was scared. I didn’t know what I was going to do if you didn’t come back and—”

  “Shh. You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He gave her belly another stroke. “Neither does the baby. Everything okay?”

  She nodded. “Fine.”

  “Boy or girl?”

  She’d kept the gender of their baby to herself, wanting him to be the first person she told yet so afraid she’d never get the chance. Now she was bursting to deliver the news, but… “Not with an audience. I’d rather tell you and you alone.”