I don’t ask what’s in the package. I don’t open it. I deliver it — clean, fast, no trace.
Until this job. Now half of Halo City wants what I’m carrying, and the only thing between me and a body bag is six-foot-something of armed, infuriating problem named Torin Dempsey.
He’s not the bodyguard they send for billionaires. He’s the one they send when things get ugly. Forty-eight hours. Safe houses, backseats, a hotel room neither of us pretends is about sleeping.
He says his job is getting me out alive. But the way his hands find me in the dark? That’s not the job. ?? Sharp edges. Grey morals. Filthy chemistry.
