The Monster (Boston Belles 3)

“Get out.” I pointed at the door. “Now. And don’t come back.”

He stared at me with amusement, slowly rearranging himself, buttoning his slacks, removing a cigarette from his pack.

“Lighten up, Nix. I heard you when you said you were on the pill. I just like to see you getting pissy.”

“Well, congratulations, you succeeded. You think it’s okay to tell a woman what to do with her body?”

“Depends on the woman.” He shrugged.

“Out!” I yelled, louder now.

He lit his cigarette. Another thing that bothered me. He knew I hated when he smoked. I stomped to the door, flinging it open all the way.

“Out!”

“Or what?” He grinned around the cigarette. “You’ll call the police to come and pick me up from your unregistered death clinic, Nix?”

“Or I will tell my brothers you’ve screwed their baby sister twice now, despite getting … oh, what is it, an extra million just to stay away from me?” I blinked slowly, a sugary smile on my face.

Sam snorted, moving toward the door with deliberate leisure designed to drive me nuts.

“Don’t come near me again,” I bit out.

“That won’t be a problem.”

And just like that, he was done.

Leaving me a half-naked mess, smeared in our truths and lies and all the things we couldn’t talk about.

My heart half-broken but held in his bloodied hands.

A few days had passed since I screwed Aisling at her death clinic.

I was sick as a dog and wasn’t showing any signs of improvement.

My fever was up, I threw up everything I put inside my body, and could barely drag myself from my bed to the door to snatch the DoorDash delivery left there.

It was the first time I was seriously sick since I was nine. The luxury of being weak and dependable wasn’t something I allowed myself. In fact, I hadn’t taken one sick day from school or work since moving in with the Brennans. I’d always done my best to be worthy of their awe and admiration, a half-man, half-god. Unbreakable and stronger than steel.

This was why I never let my adoptive parents in. Not fully, anyway. Not into my apartment, my domain, my privacy.

My corner of the world was mine and mine alone—to lick my wounds, be less than perfect, quiet, uncertain.

I was content to visit Troy and Sparrow, treat them as family then retreat back to the shadows. The less they knew about me, the better. Living with them while I was a teen had been liking holding my breath underwater. Despite pretending I was going to go about my old ways and give them trouble the day I’d moved in with them, I tried hard not to fuck up.

I was the smartest, fastest, most ruthless soldier Troy had ever had, gave Sparrow jewelry for Christmas, and protected Sailor fiercely every step of the way.

And now this happened.

One and a half fucks with Aisling Fitzpatrick. That was all I needed to throw me off the rails. Rails? I was nowhere near the goddamn fucking train station at this point.

For a docile thing, she sure knew how to leave a lasting impression. But the raw, impossible sweetness of her called to me like a lighthouse in pitch fucking black.

Touching her was a mistake. One that had cost me more than I was willing to pay. Four days after I had her, and I still couldn’t look her brothers in the face. I’d neglected all responsibilities toward the Fitzpatricks. Of course, I still showed up at Badlands, found the time to slit a Bratva member’s throat for trying to sneak up on me after a business meeting downtown.

Things were heating up between the Russians and me, and I’d had to recruit more soldiers. Some of them were retired folks Troy used to work with. I needed to keep Brookline protected—and mine. Now was not the time to play house with the little doctor. Not when she could become a target, too.

On the fifth day of my feeling like a bag of steaming shit, I admitted defeat. Calling Aisling to provide me medical aid was like Johnnie Depp calling Amber Heard and asking her to be his character witness. It was time to hurl my ass into the nearest hospital and get the medical help I so obviously needed.

Reluctantly, I took a shower, jammed my feet into a pair of sneakers, and grabbed my keys, on my way to the door. I swung it open.

Aisling was standing on the other side, brown paper bags full to the brim with groceries in her arms.

I slammed the door in her face, but she was quick—or maybe I was goddamn slow—and slid her foot between the door and the frame. She let out a yelp, causing me to open the door immediately all the way and curse under my breath.

“Her name was Ms. Blanchet,” she peeped out.