Her Savage Mountain Daddy

2

Cormac

They said I was the best there is at what I did. Some people thought it was because I was married to the job, so to speak. That I knew no other life than the rule of the gun and primal urge to hunt and to bring down. Others thought it was my military background—that the Marines hammered rigorous discipline into me like a machine.

But really, it was just one thing: that I was merciless.

I’d held a man in chains in a fucking storage facility for weeks once, because that’s what was necessary for the job. I’d stepped in front of bullets, crashed cars though walls, watched men I’d call brother fall, all in the name of duty. My mission, whatever it was, took priority over every other facet of my life. The mission owned me, and I owned it until it’s completion.

First, there was the Marines. Then came the blue shield of cop’s beat. I’d worked the roughest neighborhoods in Detroit when I came back, fighting against gangs almost worse than the damn Taliban.

But now? Now I was something different entirely. At forty, I was a contractor for the FBI, with my unique skills being used the way they should be. Unhindered by rules. Not weighed down with a badge. My job was to hunt, now—to seek, to capture, and to secure. I hunted down the odd wanted criminal, but primarily, my job was to get “at risk” witnesses into protective custody, and to get them there alive.

And that’s what brought me to that shitty college club that night. Her. Because she was in more danger than she could ever possibly imagine. Because it wasn’t just me hunting her, it was pieces of shit that would hurt her. Badly. Kill her too. But that was not going to happen, not on my watch.

Hell, I was in danger too. And not just when it came to the assholes trying to hurt her that might come after me if I intervened. No, it was bigger than that. It was more explosive than that. Explosive like the kind of news that makes headlines. Headlines like “FBI collusion with criminals.” And here I was caught in the middle of it, with this particular job being the crux of the whole thing. I could always walk away, and just leave the whole mess behind me, but that was not gonna fucking happen. Not with her involved. Not when walking away could get her killed. Not a fucking chance.

I stopped, my jaw clenching tight like steel as I melted into the shadows by the edges of the dance floor. My eyes scanned the room, instinct working like an oiled machine to drown out the background sounds and distractions until finally, my gaze found her.

And I growled.

I was like a wolf who’d caught scent of his prey. A wild animal just waiting for the chains to come off so that he could pounce. Because this wasn’t any regular job, and she sure as shit wasn’t any regular mark.

Everything was different with Nina.

It was more than just “protect the witness” with her. It was more than just doing my job. With her, it felt like I was protecting a piece of myself. With her, the idea of failing didn’t just piss me off, it got me furious. The idea of those pieces of shit getting their hands on her, or hurting her, or even looking at her had my blood boiling like lava in my veins, my fury barely contained as my muscles clenched and my rage built, standing there in the shadows.

I’d been watching her for a week now, ever since the Bureau got wind that Sylvan and his men were after her. Surveillance footage placed her in the alley near the hit Sylvan and his men pulled on the rival arms dealer, and it was pretty easy to put two and two together and figure out what that jackal wanted with her.

He wanted to tie up a loose end. Plug the leak.

That was not going to happen.

Yeah, I’d been watching her alright. Watching, agonizing, and obsessing over her. And my obsession had only grown with each passing day, until it consumed every single part of me. I’d watched the way she turned those college boys’ heads without even knowing it—heads I want to snap off at the neck for having the audacity to try and catch a glimpse of her. I’d watched her slowly give in to the pressures of her shitty, terrible influence of a roommate. The sexier clothes. The staying out late. Going to parties, flirting with boys.

My blood boiled again at the fucking thought of it. And when I watched the fucking punk with the stupid-ass pencil-line excuse for a beard put his hands on her, I almost roared. I almost charged through the crowd like a bull set free to pound him into the ground for touching what was mine.