Lone Spy

The familiar pop of a gun rings out, and I'm slammed against the wall, Ash's giant form blocking me. All I can see is his tie pin—the eagle’s beady eyes glinting with onyx.

He speaks into his sleeve. His hand circles half my waist. People scream and run. Totally freaked out. Someone is shooting at us.

Rage bubbles in my chest. My corset digs in as my lungs try to expand. Ash looks down, eyes narrowed. Spots dance in my vision. This stupid dress. I can't get out of it on my own. Never again.

He scoops me up—effortless, like I weigh nothing. He's carrying me like a damsel, and because of this dress, I guess I am.

He takes off at a run. Breath caught. Heart pounding. I wrap my arms around his neck. Try to breathe. All I can see is the tie pin. All I can smell is Ash: raw cedar, leather, and citrus.

Hallway lights flash in spears. I can’t get air. People blur past. Shouting sucks behind us. I'm nestled against this giant man, here to protect only me. I'm not a damsel. I'm a trained agent.

I killed a man as large and dangerous as Ash. No, not as dangerous. Ivan underestimated me. Ash understands me.

He spins. My fingers dig into his neck, skin slick with sweat. Vision darkens, the tie pin the center of my universe.

He smashes an emergency exit. Alarm blares into dying L.A. light. Engine roar, then squealing brakes. He hefts me higher—cheek on his shoulder, nose in the hollow of his throat. His scent is all I know.

A car door opens. He hefts me in. I land with a thud, half off the seat. Ash consumes the space. The door slams. The SUV barrels forward.

I can't breathe. My fingers claw at my bodice, numb. His arm wraps my waist. Rough fingers slip between me and the gown. He rips it, buttons exploding as the fabric gives.

Air rushes into my lungs. I hang over his arm, vision clearing. Gown flopped on leather. His hot breath hits my naked back as tires hum under us.

© 2027 Emily Kimelman (Hljóðbók): 9780466957094

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Hljóðbók: 31 januari 2027