Misted (Team Zero #5) by Rina Kent

I start to get up, but he grabs my wrist and brings me down. My butt hits the ground.

“Don’t ever fucking say that again,” he growls in my face.

“Then tell me why you always pull away from me.” I cross my arms, trying not to appear too happy that he doesn’t want me gone.

His thumb caresses the inside of my wrist. I swallow audibly. This is the most touching Hawk has ever initiated. That and holding my hand earlier.

He continues staring at where his thumb is massaging my wrists as if fascinated. “It’s better if I don’t touch you.”

“Why?”

The deep turquoise of his eyes meets me. “Because I want to do bad things to you, Hellion.”

My lips part then seal shut again. I nod frantically. I want to do bad things to him, too. I just don’t know what they are. “You can.”

“You can’t take this back later.” His hand tightens around my wrist.

“I won’t.” I lift my free palm. “I promise.”

He threads his fingers into my hair and lets the strands fall loose around my face.

Hawk grabs my neck in his palm and his lips devour mine.





10





Hawk





They’ll choke on their own blood before touching what’s always been fucking mine.



Present,

On Le Salon’s third floor, a patio rimmed with golden railings overlooks the lounge area below. Nightlife in Le Salon’s club buzzes like a breathing fucking animal.

Loud music about a crown thumps along the speakers in the walls. Red lights give the screwed up old men the camouflage their status requires as they roam their gazes and hands all over the escorts.

From this secluded position, they all look like drunken ants buzzing about.

The smell of nicotine fills my nostrils as Flame blows foggy smoke my way. He offers the joint and I take it, absentmindedly drawing a long drag.

My attention zeroes on the large sofa in the middle of the lounge area. Mist sits with Shadow on her right and a man in his late thirties by her left. While Shadow talks with a few other guests, Mist focuses on the man in a tight black suit whose hair is curly like some surfer.

The fucker drinks from his glass while his other hand lies lazily on Mist’s thigh. She doesn’t even attempt to push him away.

I don’t know if I want to jam his teeth to the back of his skull or spank her raw for letting him fucking put his hands on her.

I’ll probably do both.

His eyes roam over her black gown that outlines her breasts and shows the hint of her cleavage. It’s like she wanted to dress up for the sorry fuck.

The bastard — who will soon be dead — isn’t only looking, but he’s also touching her. Under my fucking eyes.

And her.

She’s letting another man eye-fuck her after she came all over my fingers not three nights ago.

“It’s a tactic.” Flame snatches the half-burnt joint from between my fingers. I’ve been too caught up in my murder plots, I forgot about smoking altogether.

“A tactic?” I ask.

He lifts a shoulder. “Mist and Scar use their beauty to make men agree to what they want. Le Salon needs James Croft’s money and she’s playing the game.”

I growl. If Le Salon needs something from that fucker — who still didn’t remove his hand — we can always torture him.

“And no torture, you big shit,” Flame says as if reading my mind. “Croft buys most of our drugs. If we don’t sell, Hades starts PMSing and we’re all fucked when Hades is PMSing.”

Fuck Hades.

With one last enraged look below at Mist’s fake smile and Shadow’s animated conversation, I snatch the cigarette from Flame and start down the hall.

“Where are you going?” he calls from behind me.

I don’t answer and continue on my path, determination pumping in my veins.

“Don’t kill him, you hopeless fuck,” Flame says with a hint of amusement.

“Tell Shadow he owes me a boxing match.” I throw over my shoulder.



I wait in the car park for two hours.

It’s nothing compared to the time I used to wait at the desert with zero degrees in the air. If you want to nail a target, you have to be patient.

Patience has always been one of my biggest attributes. My strength. My reason for the impressive sniper record.

Being all worked up and losing one’s cool is a sure way to be distracted and miss targets — and risk my life in retrospect.

So when James Croft exits from the car park lift with three of his bodyguards following suit like ducklings, I remain in my position behind the wall opposite his car.

When I went to disrupt the car park’s security footage, I watched the replay of his arrival and pinpointed his black van with tinted windows.

The bodyguards check the car with the metal detecting machine as Croft talks on the phone with a bossy, impatient tone.

“Fucking cunts,” he mutters as he throws his phone in his pocket. “No one gets a thing done without my instructions.”

The tallest bodyguard who appears on steroids nods that the car is good to go and opens the door for Croft.

Before he can step in, I sprint from the shadows and hold a gun to his temple. The bodyguards point three guns at me.

“What the fuck?” Croft spits out, seeming more angry than afraid. Good. Breaking him the fuck up will be more fun.