Rocket (Hell's Handlers MC 5)

And by doing so, he’d made a mistake. Gave in to a dumb idea in a weak moment of stress. Sharing their secrets, surviving trauma, and battling enemies was binding them together in a way he couldn’t allow. DarkOps would always feel he owed them. Could come for him, guns blazing, at any time. Not to mention the number of enemies he’d racked up over the years. Yes, he’d been careful with identities and aliases, but none of it meant shit if someone or some government figured out who he was. Bringing a woman into that kind of risk wasn’t just stupid, it was cruel.

Had nothing to do with punishing himself or whatever bullshit Copper wanted to spew. It was just logic.

Easiest way to break the hold Chloe had on him was to shatter her illusions of what kind of man he was. What kind of man she’d allowed inside her. He wouldn’t even have to pretend to be an asshole to push her away. Sharing the story of his life would be enough to make her leave. But she’d be safe from whatever ghost may come for him, including the ones in his head.

“You want to know what my life was like before I met Copper and prospected with the club?” Even he recognized his hostile tone was over-the-top, but he couldn’t stem it. Powerful emotions he’d never dealt with were fucking with his head day and night. Something had to give and telling it to her straight would be the swiftest rip of the band aid.

“Yes,” she said, gorgeous green eyes shining with sincerity. “I want to know.”

He backed an extended step away from her, rubbing his knuckles. Something to pound would have been perfect right about then. That’s who he was. A violent bastard. Born to it. Trained for it. Excelled at it. Not the kind of man a woman stayed with long term.

“I separated from the Marines at twenty-three when I was recruited by DarkOps. They scouted me out due to my skill with weapons. Pistol, shotgun, bombs, sniper rifle, you name it, I made it my bitch.”

“Okay,” she said folding her arms across her chest as though she didn’t know what else to do with them. The move closed her off, and he immediately missed the open and warm connection from earlier.

“Spent five years working directly under Esposito. All my operations were off-the-grid classified, no back up, solo missions.”

She blinked, waiting for the punch line.

Fuck it. Beating around the bush would take too damn long. Wasn’t his style anyway.

“I’m a fucking killer, Chloe. Best assassin in the company. You know, I don’t even keep a kill count anymore. Number got too damn high.”

Her naked lips pressed together so hard they turned white at the same time a deep furrow appeared between her eyebrows.

He turned and paced the length of the room, rubbing at the back of his neck. First time he’d said those words out loud in over six years. Why did experts recommend getting shit out in the open? Was spilling his guts supposed to be cathartic? Because it fucking wasn’t. With each word, Chloe’s light had dimmed a little more. Granted, making her despise him was the point, but he felt like complete garbage in the process.

Turning to face her, he let the frustration and self-loathing take control of his tongue. “Esposito wouldn’t hesitate to grab you, or Toni, or Shell and dangle you like a fucking carrot to get what he wants. And what he wants is me. His killing machine. Back under his thumb. That’s what I bring to the table, babe. That’s what I tossed on your doorstep and brought to my club. Fucking death and danger. Don’t you think you’ve been through enough in the last few months?”

He’d expected the sharp crack of her palm to connect with his face. The least of what he deserved for who he was.

“Why’d you walk away?” Chloe asked instead, voice calm though her body still portrayed a strong hands-off vibe with her crossed arms, hunched shoulders, and flat eyes. “I’m assuming the people Esposito sent you to…uh…eliminate were pretty bad people. Terrorists? Murderers? Evil dictators?”

This conversation needed to end. He had to walk out of the room and away from Chloe before he lost his resolve. But he opened his mouth instead. “At first, I vetted the missions myself. Researched the targets. Yeah, they were the worst of the fucking worst. Did shit you couldn’t dream up in your nastiest nightmares. Over time, I trusted the information Esposito gave me and stopped doing my own investigations.” He turned away, staring at the cold, unlit fireplace. Having Chloe in his private space felt nice. Too nice. Imagining her dozing on the giant sofa with her head in his lap while a fire roared a few feet away was too easy a picture to paint. Ridiculous fantasies for a different type of man. One that worked nothing more than a nine-to-five job, whose worst habit was leaving day old grounds in the coffee pot, and who would never bring psychotic mercenaries to her world.