The roar of Harley pipes was a welcome sound as Kyrnon Murphy headed away from the compound toward his loft in the outskirts of the city.

With every mile he gained away from the building fading in his rearview mirror, he breathed a little easier. He was tired, his muscles ached, and it was a bloody miracle his eyes were still open, considering he hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.

But he only had an hour’s drive from home where Amber would be waiting, probably still tucked away in their bed with her wild, curly hair fanned out across his pillows.

They’d only been back from Belfast for two days before he was called in again. Two days of nonstop work, and he already missed her like crazy. Two days that had ultimately turned into a few weeks when he’d hardly been home.

Which annoyed him as much as it probably annoyed her.

It didn’t matter if they were on vacation and his face was buried between her legs. If he got a call and needed to come in, he had no choice but to do so. His contract demanded it.

In the years they had been together, from the very beginning, he’d had to work one job after the next. From New York to Los Angeles, London to Australia, and every-fucking-where in between.

He was nearly inclined to believe he had seen more of her during those first few months together than the past two years combined.

But she was still by his side, despite it all. It didn’t matter if he showed up at three in the morning with stolen artwork and trinkets he thought she would like, or if he came home bruised and battered and slept for eighteen hours without stirring.

She was there.

Despite who he worked for and the things he did for a living, she had always been right where she was.

He knew what he had. He understood the trust and sacrifice she gave to be with him, and he didn’t take it for granted.

Which was why he wasn’t going to wait another fucking second.

No matter what.

She already had the ring, and he’d made the promise. Now, he just needed to follow through with the rest of forever.

The growl of a car engine cut through the silence of the morning, making Kyrnon glance in his side mirror in surprise. He’d long since driven out of the sticks, so the likelihood of encountering another vehicle this soon was entirely possible, but the suddenness of the truck caught him off guard.

It looked to be a pickup truck from what he could make out, the image of it becoming clearer as he eased up on the throttle. It wasn’t always easy to identify whether a car belonged to someone who wanted to kill him, or a civilian who chose to ignore speed limits.

Either way, Kyrnon couldn’t afford the risk since he was on his bike for a change with only his leather jacket and helmet.

Turning his gaze back to the road, Kyrnon slowed down enough to let the truck pass, but as quickly as he’d turned his attention away from the truck still speeding toward him, he was too late to notice the man standing in the middle of the street, dressed in black with a war vest across his chest.

And an AK-47 rifle in his hands.

“Shite.”

The first crack of a gunshot had him jerking the handlebars to the side, narrowly avoiding a bullet to the chest if he hadn’t swerved, but as quickly as the first came, more followed.

It only took a moment, a heartbeat, for him to lose control of his bike—for the wheels to go out from under him, catapulting him into the air.

In his thirty-odd years, Kyrnon had never crashed his bike—he’d never even come close.

But as he felt the wind beneath him as he flew through the air, he knew when he landed, it would hurt like fuck.

A whistling sound shot through his ears before the only thing he saw was asphalt racing up toward him the closer he came to the ground.

He landed with a harsh crunch, pain exploding where he landed wrong on his arm. His breath was knocked out of him as he bounced off the ground, but the force of his momentum didn’t stop him there. It dragged him farther down the highway until he finally rolled to an agonizing stop.

His glasses had fallen off somewhere along the way, pieces of them forming a haphazard line toward him. Almost a mile down the road, his bike was on its side, steam billowing from its engine.

Pain was an old friend, but it took every ounce of focus he had to roll over onto his back with the agony he was in. His arm was broken, in two places if he had to wager a guess, and his left leg was fucked too, but neither mattered.

Not when the man in the mask covering the lower half of his face was walking toward him.

Broken bones wouldn’t matter inside a dead body.

Kyrnon had never faced the Jackal himself, though he had heard plenty of stories about what the man was capable of.

They said he was a ghost, sweeping in and then back out again without ever leaving a trace of his presence. His victims never saw him coming until it was too late. And for the longest time, no one had actually been sure that the man truly existed.

But he, just as his other brothers-in-arms did, had learned the man did exist, and that he was just as formidable as the others claimed him to be.

Kyrnon also knew the man answered to Belladonna.

The same woman currently being held captive in the black site of the Kingmaker’s own creation. A location he could never give up, no matter how he was tortured for the information.

That was the choice he had made all those years ago—to put his life on the line for the safety and security of his handler.

Before Amber had ever smiled at him inside the crowded metro car. Before the life they had built together when he had learned to live for more than just bloodshed and violence.

Now, more than ever, he wanted to live.

He wanted to be free.

Even though he was better with his right, Kyrnon had no choice but to use his left to fumble for the gun holstered at his back, its position making it far too difficult to get out with ease.

Before he could do much of anything, the Jackal was there, his gloved hand already forming a fist before he ever cocked his arm back.

Kyrnon only saw the first hit before stars exploded behind his eyes as his head was knocked to the side.

The second came in quick succession.

A third.

A fourth.

Another.

And another.

And another.

And another.

But with each one, a pattern emerged—one that couldn’t possibly be what he thought it was. The Jackal hadn’t been there when he’d been just a lad forced to fight for profit. He would have remembered.

Just when he expected another hit, the blows stopped, and Kyrnon was able to take a proper breath or, rather, as much as he was capable of as he spat blood onto the road.

“If you’re gonna kill me,” Kyrnon said, gazing up at the man with all the defiance in the world, “you might as well see it done.”

The Jackal didn’t respond nor did he lift his fists or gun again. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his vest and pulled out a digital recorder. Once he clicked a button on the side of it, Belladonna’s voice rang out.

“Pain,” she said, loudly and clearly as if she was standing right in front of him, “is the greatest weapon a person can use against another. Pain makes a person listen. Once upon a time, I was in your position, broken and bleeding, and it was only then that I saw the truth staring back at me. Do you see it, Kyrnon? Do you see the truth?”

The tape cut off. The device tucked away again.

He didn’t see whatever the fuck she was talking about. He didn’t see anything other than the booted foot swinging toward him.

But the more he was beaten, the more blackness winked in and out of his vision, he did see.

He understood.

Soon, though, he was no longer sure of anything … except Amber.

Kyrnon saw her in the dark recesses of his mind, conjuring her face as much as his failing mind could manage.

He saw her smile. The way she always tried to tuck her unruly hair behind her ear when she grew shy around him.

How her face lit up when he asked her to marry him.

He had made her a promise that he would always come home to her. That this job would never stand in the way of their future.

As blackness and a truth he had never considered overtook him, Kyrnon knew he wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.