It was hard to speak over the sudden knot of emotion in his throat. He did it anyway. Because if you couldn’t get sappy and sentimental at a time like this, what was even the point? “I love you, Doc. Just in case you forgot already.”
“I love you, too,” she mumbled sleepily, stretching to kiss his lips. “I won’t forget.”
He reminded her again. And kissed her back. A few times. Just to make sure.
They didn’t get a whole lot of shut-eye. Three hours, maybe four. And they didn’t manage much more than kissing before they finally passed out from exhaustion…mainly because they knew the room was completely wired and Third Shift had enough of a spy cam on their lives already. Pretty much five seconds after Joe awoke with that grumpy thought, still blinking the sleep from his eyes, the tech came online. The speakerphone crackled with static.
“We’re on our way,” Elijah Richter announced over the line. “You lot had better be decent.”
“No chance of that…but we’ll be dressed,” Joe replied caustically as Neha sat up beside him, shaking off the fog of interrupted sleep.
“Guess they worked out the cover story already?” She grimaced while they put the sofa bed to rights and themselves, too. “A little more notice would have been nice. This can’t be good.”
It wasn’t. At all. He understood that. But, thanks to her, he also understood what it could be. A fresh start.
Barely a half hour later, the secret room door slid back, revealing Detective Danny and his boss. Wearing matching grim expressions. But only one of them was wearing a badge and a gun. This wasn’t Joe’s first rodeo. Or even his second. He knew what the cop was going to say before the words even left his mouth. It was the only thing he could say.
Danny pulled a pair of handcuffs off his belt, looking at Elijah Richter for the go-ahead before turning back to Joe. His eyes were full of regret…but also something fierce. Strong. A little badass. “I just want you to know: This is the last time I’m ever going to do this. Or say this.”
“Then you’d better make it good.” Joe pressed a quick kiss to the side of Neha’s head before he offered up his wrists with a flourish.
“Joseph Peluso? You’re under arrest.”
Chapter 36
The man who sat across from her looked like he wanted to eat her, and Neha Ahluwalia had no doubt that he could. In great big bites. Laying her to waste with swipes of his claws. Would it be kinder than what he’d done to land behind bars? That, she had no inkling of. But she did know he was guilty. Guilty and a killer. One was a legal distinction, the other largely genetic, and they were both equally true. It wasn’t just the look in his eyes. Not just speculation or suspicion or her overactive imagination. It was the facts. And it was in her heart. Neha’s wild, passionate heart. It had led her back to Joe Peluso time and time again, even to another visitors’ room in another prison.
He’d been transferred to Sing Sing just days after his plea agreement, in a deal so sweet it was practically rolled in sugar. Sixteen years, with an option for parole in eight—thanks to the combination of an “extreme emotional disturbance” defense and some intervention from their new friends at Third Shift. It was air-tight, one hundred percent legal…and a sentence Joe never finished serving. He’d been extracted two weeks into the incarceration and furnished with a brand-new identity. Meanwhile, Joe Peluso had died in prison, the victim of a brutal jailhouse takedown—one last headline for the road. Neha had lived in terror that he’d die for real before they could fake it.
But he wasn’t done paying. He would never be done making restitution for his sins. She stared across the conference table at him—at that face that she’d once thought only a mother could love—and she cataloged every new line, every new scar and scratch. The strong jaw now covered by a thick, soft beard—not nearly as impressive as her brother’s, but it would get there eventually. His hair was already longer, too, brushing his neck and showing glints of gray. “Shifter genes,” he’d admitted. “If I quit shaving, I’ll look like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family.” He had a different legal name now, but he was still just Joe to her. With a lightness to his once-sullen posture and a smile in his dark eyes.
“Doc,” he chided, softly. “You just saw me ten hours ago. Ain’t nothin’ changed since then.”
Everything had changed since then, a ridiculous part of her wanted to disagree. Everything was changing for them on a daily basis. But he was right. They’d been going along like this for weeks now. Grabbing a few hours together here and there between Joe’s work assignments for 3S. He’d already logged a few frequent-flier miles to Eastern Europe, courtesy of Third Shift Air. Elijah and Jackson had decided it was just practical to keep Joe out of the country as much as possible. They were right. Even with his new look and new identity, the chances of Joe being recognized while he was on American soil were pretty high.
Her own family, at least, was none the wiser. They thought her new boyfriend was some kind of globetrotting secret agent. It was just soapy enough to suit Ma and Papa’s TV tastes, and cool enough to keep Neal and Nitesh from busting her chops about not meeting the guy yet. Only Tejal and Toral knew the whole truth—because the twins were used to living with secrets they couldn’t share with anyone else.
“I’ve missed you, that’s all,” she confessed aloud. She’d upended her world to go on the run with him, and it didn’t make sense without him in it. Whenever he was gone, there was a Joe-shaped hole in her life. She was no longer a lawyer—she’d called the inevitable disbarment from a mile away—and was a veritable pariah among many of her extended family members. There would be no more studio keys from Aishneet Auntie, for example. Ma and Papa and her brothers had closed ranks around her. Tejal would always have her back. But she felt the sting of every “Chee!” from aunties, uncles, and other cousins, and she felt the chill when she stopped in to her old gurdwara.
The basic tenets of assisting people in need only went so far, after all. And she couldn’t blame them for the judgment. Though most of the details of what had gone down with Aleksei Vasiliev had been kept out of the media, her name had still been linked to everything in the papers and on the local news. Joe had killed six men and apparently died in jail for the crimes…but as far as the public was concerned, she was alive to answer for being kidnapped, developing Stockholm syndrome, and speaking out in his defense after his “death.” For their own purposes, Third Shift’s connections had circulated through back channels that Joe’s hits were part of a sanctioned operation. But murder was murder, even if the government found a way to justify it.
That was why Joe had thrown himself fully into working for Third Shift—not as a killer, but as an operative who went into problematic areas and helped. Sure, he fought if necessary, but he also used his wolf form to hunt for those who needed food, provided medical support, and advised green operatives from the safe confines of a comm and a van. He planned to do it for the rest of his life. He’d committed to saving lives instead of taking them, to choosing hope over despair and active restitution over passive guilt. He’d chosen her. And she loved him for it. More than she’d ever thought possible.
“Fuck. When you look at me that way, I just want to climb across this table and have at you.” Joe’s laugh was strangled, and they both looked through the glass at the 3S people on the floor…all studiously pretending they weren’t paying attention to the flirtfest. Sure, they could secure the room, frost the glass, but neither of them were into sex in public places—that first time against the wall notwithstanding.
She grinned back at him. “When you talk to me that way, I just want to crawl into your lap and kiss your face off.”
He tugged theatrically at his shirt collar, giving a low whistle. “Man, I hope you don’t say that to all the jailbirds.”
Thanks to Jack’s connections, she’d secured two new positions. The first was moonlighting at Third Shift, providing an extra brain and an extra bo
dy during localized missions. The one she could actually admit to in public involved counseling recently released convicts, both human and supernatural, helping them transition back to the general population. So, yeah, it was safe to say she didn’t talk to her clients the same way. She didn’t have a prisoner fetish like she’d feared so long ago. She just had a Joe fetish.
“Remember how you talked to me when we first met?” she countered. “You’re lucky I didn’t punch your lights out.”
“You should’ve punched my lights out.” The mirth drained from him, leaving him serious. Contemplative. “I used to think…” He started and then stopped, the tips of his ears going red. It was oddly endearing. She’d seen so many emotions out of him in their brief and intense time on the run, but never such boyish embarrassment. The rest of his confession tumbled out in a rush of breath. “I used to tell myself, if they were gonna reinstate the death penalty and give me the chair, that I’d ask for one thing for a last meal.”
“What? Popeye’s? Junior’s cheesecake? A Donovan’s burger?” she teased.
“No.” He smiled. “You.”
Oh. Neha seriously started reconsidering her stance on exhibitionism. Surely their colleagues had seen worse things? Stop. In a Herculean effort to keep from melting through the floor in a puddle of lust, she turned to humor. “I had no idea you were a cannibal. Now I have to rethink our entire relationship so far.”
His laughter this time was unguarded, boisterous. “Oh, she’s got jokes.”
Neha did have jokes. And hope and joy and a man who loved her. Their life would never look like a storybook marriage, never be a traditional happily-ever-after, but it was their life. This unconventional, unpredictable adventure they’d crafted together.
The conference-room speakers—really the man behind them—chose that exact moment to make their presence known. “Are you two finished flirting? Do I really need to institute a no-fraternization rule around here?” Jack barked over the comm, sounding downright ruffled, unlike his typical TV weatherman tone. “We’ve got a mission rollout in T-minus two hours, and I need all hands, feet, and laptops on deck. Lije and his team are counting on us for tactical support.”
Shit. Jack was right. As much as she and Joe missed each other, craved each other, would always love each other, they also had plenty of work to do. They rose from their chairs in perfect synchronization as their coworkers rushed in off the floor with various bits of tech and half-empty cans of Red Bull. Danny looked a little guilty, as though the brand-new wedding band on his finger was the reason for Jack’s ire and not Neha and Joe practically steaming up the windows. Grace and Finn took adjacent seats, bickering like the old married couple they refused to be. Joaquin was already laser-focused on their tasks, spitting commands into their wireless mic.
Neha glanced across the table at Joe and found him staring at her with something bright and beautiful in his gaze. It was excitement and adrenaline and love and trust. This. This was their adventure. Because the Third Shift was a shift that never really ended.
Enjoy this sneak peek at book 2 in the Third Shift series:
Pretty Little Lion
COMING FALL 2021
Chapter 1
The VIP Lounge at the Manhattan Grand sat just below the hotel’s trendy rooftop restaurant. Floor-to-ceiling tinted windows offered up near-perfect views of the city skyline awash in the neon lights of Times Square. Near-perfect because you had to ignore the periodic drone sweeps and the occasional ominous black helicopters…ignore them or lean fully into them, posting dramatic snaps with a drone in the background. Fortunately, Meghna Saxena-Saunders wasn’t interested in anything outside. Unfortunately, what did hold her interest wasn’t suitable for Instagram pics or Twitter updates.
Check out this view! #toomanykillersinthisroom. #criminalactivity. #relationshipgoals. Guaranteed to go viral? Sure. Also guaranteed to ruin everything. Just like the man across the room. A room with an ice sculpture of a naked woman—top-shelf vodka flowing down her breasts and painstakingly carved nipples. And scantily clad real women circulating with shots of the vile stuff. They’d signed ironclad NDAs to work the gig, knowing they’d walk away with hefty paychecks and tips besides. The hefty dose of fear was an unfortunate side effect. Not that you would know it from the way the three redheads strutted through the room in tiny bikini tops and leather mini-skirts. She wanted to salute them, to applaud. They were bold, breathtaking, brave, under the slobbering scrutiny of the drunken guests.
But he was still watching her. He’d been watching her all night, tracking her movements around the party with the focus of an apex predator stalking prey…but with the care and caution of someone who existed in a hostile world that needed no excuse to punish him. All of the guards in the room operated under the latter assumption. Step one foot out of line and you die. He knew the consequences of being caught paying her too much attention, of drawing too much attention to himself. And yet he tempted fate.
Meghna wasn’t concerned by his interest so much as intrigued. She was used to the attention of men—counted on it, really. She wore bright red lipstick to draw their eyes to her mouth, picked curve-hugging dresses to pull their gazes to her tits or her ass…and she smiled just so while sliding stilettos between their ribs. The pin in her coiled up-do seemed to vibrate at that thought, like a sentient extension of her murderous impulses. Meghna shook off the tingle of anticipation, the burst of adrenaline, reminding herself that she was here to seduce not to slaughter. It would not do to leave bloodstains on Emeric Aston’s carpet. Not tonight, at any rate.
So she returned the man’s gaze, infusing it with an equal amount of focus and just a dash of sexual interest. It wasn’t a difficult task. Not the challenge it had been when she inserted herself into Emeric’s life, using all her training to tolerate his hands on her body and his cruel kisses. This man was as beautiful as he was dangerous. A black T-shirt and jeans, meant to help him blend into the background like the rest of the hired security, clung to his rock-solid body like a lover. His skin, darker than her own light brown, glowed with health. She doubted it came from any kind of product—none of the high-end brand names she’d shilled as an influencer. The smooth curve of his shaved head begged for hands to cradle it…to guide it down between her thighs. Focus, Meghna. Observe. Find his weaknesses, not your own. She took the mental reprimand like a slap, all the while tilting her head and laughing breathlessly at something that had made Aston’s cronies chortle.
It was easy—pretending to be interested in what they were saying. They didn’t expect real engagement, didn’t expect her to actually listen. So, most of the time, she didn’t. And the few times that she did…? Well, that was infinitely valuable. That was why she was here, with her arm looped through Mirko’s, periodically blinking her heavily made-up eyes at him in vapid adoration while his right-hand man seethed. Sasha Nichols had never liked her, regarded her with barely veiled suspicion. Born of a Russian mother and an American father, with loyalties one hundred percent for sale. Dual nationalities and an utter lack of conscience was something he and Emeric had in common. He required careful monitoring, even in situations like this—where she was nothing but a pretty prop for his boss.
Her watcher was getting in the way, though. Splitting her attention. Sending prickles across every inch of skin bared by her bias-cut slip dress. He was as different from Emeric and Sasha as night from day, and not just because her fair-haired and pale-skinned “protector” and his equally Nordic-appearing henchman were the whitest of white men. And Mirko a white human at that. The stranger, who was very likely not a security guard at all, was a supernatural like her. Her instincts identified him as a shifter of some kind, the specifics of which she couldn’t guess from this distance. Unlike Sasha, who had shifter blood but couldn’t actually shift and resented the whole of the universe for it, this man didn’t have any obvious insecurities. And unlike Mirko, who’d bought and paid for every companion in t
his room in one way or another, Mr. Shifter didn’t have to demand the room. He already owned it. Simply by standing in an alcove and spanning it with his gaze. Did that include her?
No. Never. Her kind belonged to no one. Don’t forget that, Meghna. Don’t forget why you’re here.
As if that was a possibility. She scoffed at the warning voice. She didn’t have the luxury of forgetting. Not in this world. Not in this life. Not after the Darkest Day, and the light that had been shined upon supernaturals afterward. Eventually, many humans had gone back to their idea of “normal.” Work and school and leisure activities. The grocery stores had been restocked after the calamities that had plagued the past few years. The grief for those lost to sickness and violence had dulled to a throb, instead of the sharp, persistent, spike. The economy was slowly rebounding. The TV shows and streaming channels and podcasts were much the same as they had been…though perhaps a bit more patriotic and pro-government than before. Those who had never experienced oppression or an -ism lived as they always had: oblivious, privileged.
Her own upbringing should have marked her for that callous delusion that the only color that mattered was the green of money. A rich man’s pampered daughter, born amongst the Washington elite, raised in her uncle’s Bollywood and Hollywood circles. Should have. Could have. Would have. But she’d never had the chance to be simply that vapid socialite who voted conservatively because of her tax bracket. Because there was her upbringing…and then there was her heritage. Her duty. Her destiny.
Meghna gently slid her arm out from Mirko’s. He barely noticed, caught up as he was in some outrageous—but no doubt still true—story about doing vodka shots in a Moscow brothel with the American president and the Russian prime minister. It was nothing she hadn’t heard before. Nothing she could use. But the handsome supernatural watcher in the corner…? He was an unknown quantity. He could make or break what she’d come here to do, what she’d worked so hard for. All because he couldn’t take his eyes from her.
Big Bad Wolf Page 29