Hans (Alliance, #4)

by S.J. Tilly

A girl like her should wear… Nothing. A girl like her should wear absolutely nothing, and she should spend her nights on her back with her thighs spread, her hands pinned, and her body heaving… underneath mine—where no one else can ever lay eyes on her.

She’s so fucking thick. And soft. And beautiful. And the spark behind her eyes is so trusting and healthy and…

And then she repeated it back. Just as simple. Just once. Hans. And I haven’t fucked anyone since.

The curvy little vixen who just turned thirty, twelve days ago—making her nine years my junior and too young for me—and has been doing her best to kill me with food poisoning through her little deliveries.

Hans, the Scandinavian fantasy I didn’t know I had. Please, pretty please, swing me up over your shoulder and carry me off to your bedroom. We can pretend it’s a Viking encampment. You’re the main warrior dude, and I’m the princess you just stole from your enemy to claim as your own…

My stomach protests at the last bite, but I can’t waste it. It doesn’t matter how bad her creations are, my deep-seated need to consume every bit of Cassandra won’t let me throw them away. And my tastebuds won’t let me go through this torture twice. So, this has become our ritual. Cassandra leaves me something that lands somewhere on the scale of edible, and I binge eat it while standing alone in my kitchen, staring out the window over my sink and imagining I’m eating them in her house, with her next to me.

Leaning down, I carefully stick the newest Post-it on top of the last one, adding it to my little stack of yellow paper squares. One for every delivery from the girl next door.

On one side of the room, the gray couch faces a subpar TV mounted above a fireplace she never turns on because someone—me—keeps disabling the gas line because someone—her—has left it on unattended one too many times.

Because if Cassandra woke up tomorrow to a bowl of rotten produce, she would feel sad. She’d probably frown. Potentially pout. And I can’t be the cause of that.

The mirror is still slightly steamy—accounting for her wet hair when she left the house—and the mix of shampoo, body lotion, and hair products makes me want to roll around on her shaggy bathroom rug. But I don’t. That would be weird.

All her. All my Cassandra. Spread out like a fucking centerfold. For someone else. My vision tints an ugly shade of green, and I storm out of my house, book in hand.

Hans is in loose-fitting sweatpants and a tight-fitting T-shirt. Jesus Christ. I want to put a steaming mug into his hands and stick him in a nineties coffee commercial.

Cassandra, my obsession, the worst baker I’ve ever met, is going to come back with who knows what to make me feel better because she thinks I’m sick. I’m not sick. I’m just struggling to speak because I got popped in the larynx last night by a man I was in the process of killing.

I should really stop her. For her sake. For my tastebuds’ sake. But instead, I crack open the can of ginger ale and prepare myself for what should be an interesting Saturday night.

how her parents’ ninety-year-old neighbor, Harold, hits on her every time she’s there. Me and Harold are gonna have a problem.

Just before he disappears into the dark, he gives the plastic a shake, and it unfurls into what can only be described as a body bag. I bite down on the completely inappropriate urge to laugh. A man with a basement full of guns and camera angles of my house, who also keeps body bags in his truck, has to be a red flag. Right?

“You are going to listen to me for one fucking second before you finish that sentence. The backpack is full of your clothes, Cassandra Lynn. Your actual clothes.” My eyes widen. “I’m a sick fuck. I’ve crossed some pretty big lines when it comes to you. I won’t pretend otherwise. And I never wanted to drag you into the mess that is my life, but I still wanted to have you.” He uses his hold on me to pull me into his side. “I wanted to fucking keep you, Butterfly, from the moment I met you. And on the off chance something like tonight happened, I needed to be prepared. So, yeah, I took a few of your things. But now you have what you need.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “So be a good girl for me and find something to put on. Or don’t.” He shrugs against me. “You’re a beautiful woman. People won’t question what you’re wearing. But I’m a big creepy dude. If I showed up dressed in tactical black, dragging a girl like you behind me, people would assume I’m one of the trafficking assholes I’ve dedicated my life to killing.”

It’s been twenty years since I’ve loved someone. But I recognize the feeling. It’s like hearing a song for the first time after years and years but remembering every lyric the second it starts. It’s a heavy sort of comfort. But it also terrifies me. I unbuckle my seat belt. Cassandra was my obsession. My Butterfly to love at a distance. A pretty creature on the other side of the glass. I never wanted her to know me. Never wanted to take the chance of trying. Because her rejection… It would crush me. I’d known that much. Known that if she was afraid of me, it would smother the last bit of humanity I still held. From afar, I could pretend. I could dream. I could fantasize and prepare. But never believe any of it could be real. Never think I’d ever have her close enough to touch. I made a point to never get close enough to touch. Cassandra reaches up and brushes her fingers along my jaw. Not once, not ever, did I think she’d reach for me. And now I’ll settle for nothing less than all of her.

There’s a man, about my age, working the front desk, and his eyes are locked on Cassandra’s bare legs. And if this douchebag doesn’t stop staring at my woman, I’m going to need a second body bag tonight.

I’m not afraid of him. This is exactly what I want. But when a man that looks like that, like he might pull your soul out of your body through your vagina, you back away.

When we hit the house, we go loud. We enter through every door and first-floor window. We show no mercy. We don’t have any. We don’t need any. Every man and woman fighting with me has hands covered in blood. And that’s okay. Because vengeance is rarely clean.

Standing in the center of the awful room, between the man I’ve been chasing for two decades and three more of his victims, is Cassandra. Her arms are stretched out in front of her. And she’s gripping a gun that’s pointed at Gabriel. And there’s blood blossoming across his chest. Cassandra lifts her aim, just a bit. “This one is for Freya.” She fires. For Freya. A lifetime of guilt and torment unlatches from my soul as I watch the bullet penetrate Gabriel Marcoux’s forehead and blow out the back of his skull. Blood and gray matter spray through the open door behind him. It’s done. The world shifts around me. It’s truly done. My beautiful Butterfly ended it. She took my burden and made it her own.

“Butterfly.” I lightly drag a finger down the outside of her foot. “You’re hurting.” “Hans, I’m aching.” Her hips shift. And I decide I can multitask.