Make My Move (Hannaford Prep #5) - J. Bree Page 0,49

their arms and even their necks before getting one on their face.”

Fuck.

Knowing it’s coming doesn’t stop the wrenching in my gut at the idea of talking about it but I was hoping for a little while longer before she asked.

“I didn’t choose the tattoo. Or the placement.”

She blinks at me for a second and then when she opens her mouth for details I cut her off, “That’s your answer. You want another question, wait your turn.”

She nods and waves a hand at me to take my turn. I don’t go for the throat like she did but I up the ante. “Worst memory?”

“Pass.” She takes another shot.

For fuck’s sake.

I roll my eyes at her. “Worst memory you're willing to tell me?”

She sighs and drums her fingers against her leg as she thinks. I’m sure she’s about to tell me to fucking shove it but then she sighs and whispers, “What's yours?”

Fuck.

Laying everything out for her might be the best way to get her to trust me but this shit is like poison to me. Thinking about it, talking about it, fucking dealing with it makes my whole system shut down until I’m nothing but rage and loathing and misery.

I tip back the bottle of beer, draining it before saying, “My da being killed. My grandfather shot him, point blank, right between the eyes. If I close my eyes I can still feel the heat of his blood hitting my face.”

She swallows.

She doesn’t offer me condolences or any of those bullshit pretty words people say to make themselves feel better, she just sits there and really fucking hears what I’m saying. Fuck, I’m sure she’s hearing what I’m not saying too.

Then she speaks and my chest feels like it’s being ripped open at her own story.

“I’m pretty good at getting into places no one else can. I was given a job to take something from a well-known marksman. Gun for hire. Assassin. Whatever you want to call him, he was the best of the best. I was terrified but I was also hungry. Lonely. Depressed and lost. I snuck in, got what I was paid to get, and I made it to the back door before he woke up. I sprinted to the gate but my leg had only been put back together for a few months at that point and I wasn't quick anymore. Diarmuid pointed a gun at me and told me to give up my employer or he’d shoot. I turned and stared him in the eye. I thought maybe seeing how young I was would be enough to stop him but he stared at me with steady, cold eyes. So I turned and ran, and he shot me. I had to run for two miles with a fresh bullet wound, then I got sewn back together with no pain relief by some nurse turned crackhead. It got infected and I nearly died.”

Fucking Diarmuid.

Just thinking about him has me pissed off. The way he’d looked at her the one and only time I’ve met him still gets me fucking enraged at the sound of his name. He’d looked at her possessively, like he had this long history with her that I’ll never know about or understand, and at the time I was convinced they’d had some sort of relationship. That he’d fucked her and that’s why she’s fucking jittery around me.

Now I’m guessing the fucker is waiting her out.

Over my dead fucking body.

I nod and rub at my chin, enjoying the way her eyes are glued to the action. Her cheeks are a little flushed, enough of the alcohol in her system to give her some color but she’s not anywhere near drunk yet.

Do I even want her drunk? Do I trust myself around her if we do get fucking wasted? Shit.

“Who forced the tattoo on you?” she says, a little hesitant but I’m ready for it this time.

It doesn’t stop me from keeping my eyes away from hers, running a finger over the rim of my shot glass as the words tumble out of me a little easier than before. “My uncle. My da was the oldest in the family. He had nine siblings, four full blood and the rest were from my grandfather’s second marriage. Domhnall was the next boy born and he’s set to take over now that I’m out. There was a threat made against me and Ma. My grandfather didn’t give a shit. He said casualties were the price they paid for being