Hunting Her Box Set

More casualties.

I’m sure Cole knows I’m in listening distance. I’m positive he’s checked the video feed on his phone to see I’m positioned close to the door, hanging off his every word.

And still he doesn’t hide anything from me.

He doesn’t whisper or step outside to hold the discussion away from prying ears.

“I’ll greet them on the pier and make sure your father’s men stay on the boat.” Luca doesn’t lower his voice either. “That way you can do your thing while I do mine.”

I tilt my ear toward the open door, latching onto a more detailed part of their plan.

“And what about her?” Luca asks. “What will she do?”

My pulse increases.

“Don’t worry. She will be safe.”

There’s a pause, a longer than necessary delay where I have the unfortunate opportunity to wonder if they’re having some sort of silent communication.

Is it a scheme? Another trick?

Of course it is. Luca has no “worry” for me. He doesn’t care about my safety.

“And once this is over?” he adds. “Will she be safe then, too?”

I hold my breath, the captured air burning in my lungs.

“That’s up to her.”

Me. I can be safe if I hold up my end of the bargain.

I need to watch a murder and follow his protocol afterward.

The former seems far easier than the latter.

I’ve seen a wealth of violence in my life and the act of murder isn’t what daunts me. It’s the morality. But the more I think about Cole’s reasoning, the more I believe he has a point.

It’s becoming a struggle to straddle the righteous high-wire. Maybe I shouldn’t have stepped foot on it at all when i

I’m sure other agents wouldn’t hesitate to push for a speedy resolution. If the choice came down to Luther’s freedom or his death, my fellow Feds might easily choose death without pausing for contemplation.

The murder of a criminal would’ve already happened. The cover-up would be taking place.

Unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury.

When my father diverted off the path of justice, it ensured I’d have to watch every decision I made for the rest of my life. I don’t have the freedom to make even slightly dishonorable choices. Every thought I have needs to be on the right side of the law.

I can’t falter.

I shouldn’t even waiver.

Which, I guess, means my conflict isn’t entirely based on right and wrong. I’m looking at this problem and seeing how it will affect my reputation—my career—not the women held captive.

My stomach churns at the realization.

“Shit.” I hang my head in my hands, my elbows rested against my knees.

I don’t give a fuck about Luther. Nobody should.

And what is the alternative? A crapload of money spent on a manhunt for someone who would then cost the government more money when he was holed up in prison for the rest of his life.

I should be out there, helping to plot a foolproof plan instead of fighting this. My skills could be put to use to ensure nothing goes wrong.

But then I’d have the issue of aiding and abetting.

“Goddammit.” I massage my forehead and battle my conscience. I drown in the tumultuous waves of my internal struggle while the sound of food preparation starts in the kitchen.

I hear the fridge open and close. Drawers, too. Then footsteps.

Cole enters my peripheral vision, his frame bearing down on me as he stops in the doorway, his suit-covered shoulder leaning against the frame.

“Would you like to help me prepare di

I raise a brow, unimpressed. But it’s not only the invitation to be his kitchen bitch that pokes at me. It’s everything else: the laziness in his stance. The relaxation. The calm. “You want me to be your slave?”

“I thought you’d appreciate being involved so you didn’t have to worry about any secret ingredients.”

My cheeks heat.

He’s offering me a kindness, of sorts.

“There’s no pressure, Nissa. I have no hidden motives.”

There’re always hidden motives.

Always.

“I’ll leave the decision with you.” He pushes from the frame, his presence escaping my periphery as he walks away.

It’s not that I don’t want to ensure he’s not slipping something into my next meal. My hesitation revolves around my lack of hatred for this easily hate-able man.

I’ve lost my animosity. Fevered bitterness no longer boils my blood. All the venom is gone.

Nothing consumes me. Nothing but frustration.

I want to return to hating him. I want to be sucked dry of my knowledge so I can float back to ignorance.

But it’s too late. We have something in common: our hatred for our fathers. And I can’t stop my thoughts from wandering to admiration when I think of the struggle he’s willing to endure to set things right.

We’re striving toward a common goal and it feels wrong. Wrong, but so damn right. And entirely necessary.

I push from the floor and ignore the bipolar reactions of my i

Cole is in the kitchen.

Luca is stretched out on the couch, his head poking up to watch me. “You okay?”

His concern hits me like an assault.

“Super,” I drawl, making my way into the kitchen. I position myself on the opposite side of the island counter to Cole as he pulls out a frying pan from the drawers beneath, the sound of it colliding with the stove clattering off the walls.

Luca pushes from the couch and walks for the glass doors leading into the fading sunlight. He’s leaving me alone with Cole. Alone with confusion.

“Where’s he going?” My voice is an agitated mess.

“Outside to make sure we don’t miss anything while I’m cooking.”

That doesn’t ease my concerns as I watch Luca push aside the sheer curtain and disappear outside.

“Have you heard from Luther yet?”

“No.” He peels an onion, then begins to dice, his large, ta

“You’re eying the knife like a treasure.” He drops the blade to the chopping board and discards his suit jacket, placing it on the kitchen counter behind him. “Have you had a change of heart about killing me?”

I raise my gaze to his, not showing an ounce of how far from the truth he is. “Why don’t you hand it over and we can find out?”

He smiles, the expression transforming his face into that of a playful playboy. He’s not threatened by me. Not even a little. “Maybe later. After the risotto.”

He reclaims the weapon and continues making a dish I’ve never attempted before. Not that his superior culinary skills are surprising. There isn’t much point being a master chef when I’m only serving a table for one.

I watch him in silence, taking in the mastery as he combines ingredients, melting butter, frying the diced onion and some garlic. He does everything with perfect confidence and synchronicity. He heats rice, prepares shrimp from the fridge, stirs broth in the pan.

He’s at home in the kitchen.

He seems almost normal.

Human.

Right now, Cole is an everyday guy, cooking an everyday meal, in an everyday environment.

There’s no deception, no deceit, no horror.

All his atrocities are hidden. Shielded from view.

When it comes to adding the wine, he raises the bottle in my direction. “Would you like a glass?”

“Are you kidding?” I glare.

“Too soon?” His lips lift in that taunting kick he’s perfected.

“Yeah. Too soon.”

Asshole.